


The Echoes Of Yesterday

by Samayel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post - Half-Blood Prince AU, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 44
Words: 107,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2076960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayel/pseuds/Samayel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter is nearing 40, teaching DADA at Hogwarts, and still nursing secrets from the war and after. His comfortable routine is thoroughly shaken up by the untimely arrival of his old rival and former lover's newly adult son...whose mere presence pushes Harry to confront the worst parts of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 1: Prologue

Harry Potter made his way back to his suite. Today had been a very good day. The children had loved their first dueling session, and with a bit of careful guidance, he'd made sure that no one in his second year DADA class had gotten hurt. To this day, he used samples of his former teachers' lesson plans to guide his classes year by year. What he'd learned at Hogwarts, and after, had made him a fairly good professor in the end.

The first year was always the most routine. Simple spells of protection and the counter spells to the most minor of hexes and curses. It was more about learning the art of casting spells than it was about critical defense. As the years progressed, the classes grew ever more complex, preparing tomorrow's wizards and witches for Dementors, Boggarts, Dark curses and desperate duels. Always at the center of it was Harry Potter, who had made something of a good life out of teaching at the school that held his best, and his worst, memories.

Hagrid, long-lived as any giant, was still teaching now, and was a source of great comfort when Harry was feeling a bit down. Ron and Hermione were still among his closest friends, and with Ron teaching basic flight and broom handling and care, he saw his old friends quite often. Neville Longbottom was teaching Herbology these days, and served as Headmistress MacGonagall's right hand man and second in charge.

Harry had refused the position years ago, content merely to teach, while Neville, who had gained considerable confidence during the war, rose to the task admirably as the Head of Gryffindor House. Divinations was now taught exclusively by Firenze, the centaur that had long ago befriended Harry, earning the wrath of his herd. Arithmancy was now taught by Cho Chang, which had once been a bit of a ticklish situation, but had long since settled into a comfortable working friendship. Astronomy was taught by an elderly Ravenclaw. The professorship for the Runes department was held by a rather genial Slytherin. Charms was still in the capable hands of Professor Flitwick, and old Binns was still making History of Magic an occasion worthy of naps.

In a twist of irony that would have truly galled Snape, a former Hufflepuff now taught Potions, though Grimes was from a class that came some years after the war, and Transfiguration was taught by a Slytherin who had graduated long before Harry arrived at Hogwarts, but whose accomplishments in research had gained her quite a few accolades before she accepted a contract with Hogwarts. Despite the imposing name. Professor Graves was as well liked as ever Professor MacGonagall had been, if not perhaps a little more.

Hogwarts had enjoyed almost twenty years of peace and prosperity, allowing it to grow and change after the traumas of warfare. It had been a lot of hard work on Minerva's part, getting people to send their children back to a school were a headmaster was once murdered in cold blood, but with the help of Harry and the rest of the staff, the doors opened a year after the war ended, and the halls were full of youthful voices. Harry hadn't started as an instructor right away. He'd spent three years as an Auror, chasing down the last remnants of Voldemort's wicked cohort. When it was done, he took his post at Hogwarts, discovered that it held certain satisfactions that could be found nowhere else, and settled into a quiet life as Hogwarts' most famous instructor. He was occasionally fawned over by the press, adored by the children, a friend to the entire staff, and good at what he did.

He should have had no excuse for closing the door to his suite, opening a bottle of Old Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey, and drinking himself to sleep at night. He should have been happy, but he wasn't. Not really. He didn't drink himself sick anymore…not the way he did just after his time as an Auror was finished. He never drank during the day, or let himself fail in his duties because of his private problems. He worked hard, and he needed sleep, and that only came with a price. Dreamless Sleep had lingering side effects after a few weeks, and almost every cure-all he'd ever heard of had some minor flaw that rendered them useless for him. He wasn't that good at complex potions, and given that it was a private matter, he didn't want help making something that would tell others about his problems. Whiskey could be dealt with by a standard Hangover Remedy that even he could brew, so at ten o'clock each night, Harry uncorked a bottle and filled his glass until he could rest in peace.

There were signs that others could see…if they were looking close enough. More than fifteen years of drinking more than a pint of hard liquor each night had taken its toll. His hands shook a little, but only when he tried to hold them still very late in the day. When he had a podium or a wand to grip, he was as steady as a rock. Faint hints of gray had speckled his black hair, which was perfectly natural, and his face had begun to show the small lines that marked him as well past thirty. He rarely flew his broom anymore, despite many plaintive requests from friends and students who had heard tales of his Gryffindor glory days. He didn't really trust his nerves enough to execute the moves that had once been his hallmark on the pitch.

There were times when he quietly hated himself for his weakness, but how much was a man supposed to bear before he broke? This was his medicine. Sweet and strong, sure and predictable. This made his nights bearable. Perhaps it was weakness, and maybe he should have sought help long ago, but there were things he had never shared with others that tore at him even now, and he'd kept his secrets well. Even Ron and Hermione had never known his private shame, though they knew more about the real history of the war than the press had ever heard.

Harry had always been a private person at heart. He'd come so very far, but a part of him would always be the little boy beneath the stairs at Privet Drive, quiet and uncertain, horribly self-conscious and fearful of the disapproval of others. Because that boy would always be a part of him, Harry had shared only what he dared to share with those he loved. Their approval had meant the world to him, and he hadn't dared to risk the loss of such a subtle but powerful thing. That choice had cost him everything that mattered.

And so he drank. One glass. Two glasses. A third and then the better part of a fourth. Alone in a comfortable professor's suite in Hogwarts, Harry Potter dulled his senses in fiery liquor until sleep could claim him, free of memories and divorced from the cruelty of a thoroughly human heart. He would be thirty-eight years old when the summer holidays came about, and a single name crossed his lips with a sigh as unconsciousness finally stole upon him, just as it often had before.

"Draco."

\----------------------------------------------------------

TBC


	2. Fade To Black

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 2: Fade To Black

Harry brushed down his somewhat unruly hair, frowning at the faint streaks of gray at his temples. He wasn't particularly vain, and never had been, but it was still a surprise some days to look in the mirror and find a grown man approaching his middle years staring back at him, blinking owlishly from behind a pair of round glasses. He was a handsome enough fellow, after a fashion, and still nearly fit enough to be half his age, but the man in the mirror was still vaguely unfamiliar at times.

This first week of school had gone well enough, and he was still sorting out who among his students would require a bit more help and who needed little more than praise. Such was a teacher's life, scrambling to fit the challenges to the students, hoping that each got the most from their time at Hogwarts, and from his own classes in particular. 

Students still often found DADA to be the most 'fun' class of any day, and it grieved Harry every time a harsh grade had to be delivered. There were few things more unpleasant than watching students fail despite the help they could be given, and he dreaded the end of every year, when OWLs and NEWTs were assessed and final grades handed out. The beginning of each year, however, was another matter, and it always started cheerily, with the Sorting Feast and fresh new faces. His mornings might still be marred by his need for drink each night, but with a Hangover Remedy at his nightstand, Harry was ready to face each day and extract from life the few, small pleasures he could find for himself.

There was a curt rap at his suite door, and Harry recognized its tone immediately. Only Neville ever knocked that way. Some might have thought that his professionalism made him stuffy and conceited, but Harry knew that Neville's formality came from a deep desire to do the best job he could, and to honor those that had done his job in years past. Harry straightened his robes and made for the door, opening it with a relaxed smile.

"Neville, good morning. All's well, I hope? Didn't expect to see you until breakfast."

Neville Longbottom nodded yes, and smiled back. Professional relationship aside, Harry was a better friend than most, and there was a certain informality between them even now, years after the events of the war.

"Nothing so terrible, Harry. Just a short early meeting with the Headmistress. Thought I'd pop in on my way and tell you myself. We're gathering in the staff meeting room ten minutes before breakfast. No bad news that I'm aware of, just a brief on a late transfer student. Always tricky to slip one in after the start of year, but it happens now and again. I'm off…see you there soon enough, right?"

"Aye. Thanks, Nev. See you there. Almost ready now anywise."

Neville was hurrying off to prep the staff room, and Harry fiddled with his hair and robes just a bit more, still feeling out of place in professor's robes after fifteen years. Some days, like today, it was hard was hard to believe he'd ever been a wide-eyed little boy, wandering the halls and being spooked by ghosts and staff alike, and it was equally hard to believe that he had found himself a home here, even if everyone else simply thought of him as Professor Potter.

He'd surprised himself by becoming comfortable with rising early, and despite lounging abed as a teen, he rather liked waking early in the day anymore. The walk to the staff room was eerily quiet at this hour, but in a few minutes the first students would be hurrying to the Great Hall for their breakfast. Ron Weasley joined Harry at the corner hall as they made their way from Gryffindor tower to the meeting, a welcome arrival as always.

"Heya, Harry! Can't believe we've got another meeting already. Only had one the day before yesterday and here we are all over again. 'Summat about a new student, right?"

"Yeah. That's all I got from Neville as well. Must've come up spur of the moment for Minerva to pull us all in today like this. Probably another pureblood from off the continent. They love a flashy, late entrance and a lot of fuss attached to their arrival. Load of codswallop if you ask me, but there you have it. Either way, Hogwarts is like your family…there's always room for one more. Right, mate?"

"Smartass! True 'nuf though. Can't blame anyone for finishing here. Still the best school in the world for my money. C'mon! With Potter and Weasley on the job, who'd let their kid miss out on a four-star education?"

Harry smirked mildly. Ron had changed very little over the years, even though he was a bit beefier than he'd been in school and his hair was just beginning to thin a bit at the temples. He'd spent almost seven years playing professional Quidditch for the Chudley Cannons, and even though he'd spent his first four years on the second string and changed positions three times, he'd stuck at it until he'd had a good season all around. After leading the league in his final year as a Keeper, Ron accepted the Flight Instruction and Quidditch Referee slot at Hogwarts and retired from professional Quidditch almost instantly. It was largely because it would have been hard to follow up with a second year as good as that last one, and Ron had really wanted to be remembered at his best. Quidditch was a young person's game, and at twenty-four, Ron hadn't had all that many good seasons left. He'd proven himself in every way he needed to, and that was good enough for him.

He was still boisterous and good natured, smarter than he let on, loyal to a fault, and Harry's best friend besides. He'd married Hermione the year after he'd made the Cannons' lineup, but the Weasley family had been forced to hold their breath in anticipation of grandchildren. Hermione had been taking advanced courses in Magical Theory for several years after the war, and now worked for the Ministry when she wasn't lecturing on the subject. None of this had stopped them from finally having five children when the time was right, but Ron's oldest daughter wouldn't be starting at Hogwarts until next year. Ron was the only staff member who took the Floo home each night, adamantly refusing to be parted from his family for more than a single night, and even on those rare occasions he complained mightily and slept poorly. Like his father, he was a family man through and through, and Harry had to admire Ron's complete devotion to his loved ones.

Sometimes he felt a hint of jealousy, but it was quickly washed under by years of laughter and good times, and by the knowledge that there was another place besides the Burrow where he was welcomed anytime. Of course, it meant being up to his knees in red-headed godchildren, but that was hardly a fate worse than death. While Ron had a suite maintained for him at Hogwarts, with a limited Floo connection so he could travel home easily, Harry lived at Hogwarts year round, visiting his friends most weekends, and enjoying the knowledge that his dearest friends were genuinely happy and healthy.

Routine staff meetings had been a creation of Minerva's, and Harry approved in general. Sometimes they were a trifle redundant, passing along information that might just as easily have been sent in notes or by word of mouth, but the idea had been to foster a sense of unity amongst the staff, keeping the old house rivalries down to a minimum. It was a worthy notion, and it had to be admitted that it had worked for the most part. Careful hiring had guaranteed that the staff was thoroughly professional and worked well together, and regular group communication with their Headmistress kept everyone feeling equally valued. Despite her deep and abiding love for her own house, Minerva MacGonagall had answered the call of necessity as a leader, and in the aftermath of the war, a time of healing was needed, closing the breach of trust that had crippled Hogwarts long ago. Still, the tedium of meetings was nothing that one looked forward to, even if one approved of the purpose behind them.

The meeting room was just ahead, and Harry and Ron quickened their pace and adopted an air of formality, trying their level best to remember that they were no longer unruly students being dressed down for misbehavior, but rather gentlemen of substance and quality, attending a meeting of their peers. Most of the others had already gathered, and were nattering in small groups while sipping strong, early morning tea. Even the new medi-wizard, Master Prewett, a second cousin to Molly Weasley, was in attendance, since his ward hadn't yet dealt with anything worse than the occasional tummy bug.

Minerva MacGonagall was in the corner near the head of the table, prim and unruffled as ever, even though twenty years had turned her hair to snowy white and lined her features a bit more as well. She was facing the rest of the room, concentrated entirely on the person in front of her, whose back was turned to Harry. It was obviously a young man, with short, cropped blond hair and a posture that hinted at irritation as well a faint whiff of arrogance. Too likely it was their new arrival, fresh from the continent with privilege in his past. The wealthy purebloods had calmed a bit after the war, but children of wealth and substance were usually a bit more difficult to deal with…at least in Harry's experience. Minerva's eyes caught his arrival, and she lifted her chin before addressing him crisply.

"Ah, Professor Potter, how timely. I should like to introduce you to our newest arrival. Please make the acquaintance of Draco, Lord Malfoy."

The young man turned while Harry's heart thundered in his ears. Steel gray eyes met his own, and Harry stared at the handsome face of his dead lover, mourned for fifteen years in secrecy. It was impossible to breathe, and Harry's world spun and twisted, just before it turned to black.

TBC!


	3. Down And Out

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 3: Down And Out

 

"This is the almighty savior of the wizarding world?"

"If you have any idea what's good for you, you'll keep that sharp tongue in your mouth, boy! Harry! Harry, are you alright?" Ron's voice was hard and clear in the darkness.

Consciousness came back to him, and Harry's mind reeled while his blurred vision took in his surroundings. The others loomed huge around him, seen as if through a long, dark tunnel, and while Ron was at his side, propping Harry's head up, and Master Prewett was muttering spells from Harry's left, a curious and yet disgruntled looking young man looked down at him with obvious scorn.

There were differences, and they became clearer as Harry's full faculties became available to him again. The hair was much shorter than his Draco had ever kept it. The jaw was a bit stronger, and the young man's lips were a bit thicker…more beestung and full than Draco's had been. The eyes were more of a leaden gray, and his nose was less sharp and aquiline than Draco's. The resemblance was uncanny nonetheless, and even looking at him hurt. It was like staring at the sun, and Harry very nearly hoped he'd go blind rather than endure another minute of this. He pushed Ron's hand away and rolled to his feet, staggering a little while his vision swam.

"I'm fine! Just fine! Didn't feel well this morning at all. Just a bit out of sorts, but I'll be alright."

Minerva MacGonagall stepped into view, looking piercingly at Harry through her bifocals.

"I should beg to differ until you've gone with Master Prewett for a thorough check-up! I won't have you falling ill for lack of care at the start of term, Professor Potter. You'll go to the hospital ward and get a bit of looking after. I shall join you there later and discuss a few matters with you then. As for the rest of you, do take your seats and we shall make this brief. I'm sure everyone is quite eager to get on with their day."

There was no arguing with Minerva once an order had been given in public, and Harry knew better than to argue in a crowded room. Even if he was fine, and he was sure he was, she wouldn't budge once a decision had been made, and the matter was settled. Harry let John Prewett lead him out of the room and down the hall without complaint, still haunted and dazed from what he'd just endured.

It seemed impossible. He knew that Draco had married…that was what had driven them apart in the end. Draco had insisted that his family required an heir, and that it was his duty to provide one. It had galled Harry to hear it assumed that he would play the role of 'secret lover' to the lord of the Malfoys, and he'd reacted predictably at the time, venting his outrage spectacularly, and that event had put an abrupt end to what had grown between them in the months leading up to the end of the war.

Draco had married a girl from an old European family. Claire DeLune had been a pretty little thing from France, educated at Beauxbatons, and ignorant of the war in general. Harry had joined the Auror service and poured himself into tracking down the tattered remnants of Voldemort's Death Eaters. As soon as the wedding was a few weeks past, rumor reached Harry that Draco Malfoy's young wife was already expecting. He'd tried very hard to avoid the rumor mill after that.

The child was born the next year, and Harry was far too busy to care, privately hating the surname Malfoy and all who bore it. Death Eater covens were everywhere, and many had refused surrender, choosing to fight to the death as Voldemort himself had done.

They never met again. Draco and his wife were killed by renegade Death Eaters just a year later, and Harry had headed the investigation afterwards. The child had been at its grandparent's home, and the investigation revealed that Draco had known of a plot against him. Someone had tipped off his enemies regarding his movements, and though Draco had been cautious enough to place his child among relatives and under wards, when he attempted to leave France discreetly, he and his wife had been cornered and slain, the final and ultimate price of his betrayal of Voldemort and his flight from their fury with Snape.

That and the months afterwards were the ugliest times of Harry's life. The disaster that had flung them together at Grimmauld Place had ultimately cost Draco his life, as well as the life of the woman for whom he'd left Harry. The last time he'd looked at the face of his first and only lover, it had been cold and still, twisted in a permanent rictus of agony. The worst of his sins had been born looking at that grisly sight.

He tracked the killers for weeks, and had dispatched the two of them easily enough when the time came, but when he found the name of the one who'd turned them in, Theodore Nott, the last of his rage had needed a fashion in which it could be vented, and simple execution was not enough. For the false friend that had let Draco be killed over some petty childhood grudge, Harry had reserved a special fate.

He'd left Nott screaming for help, knees shattered beyond repair, helpless and wandless in the house of his forefathers. Just before he burned the place to the ground, he'd given the man's pathetic pleas a single brief answer.

"I don't know if there is a hell after this world that's cruel enough to give you what you fucking deserve, so let's see if I can make one for you right here!"

Those words had sealed Nott's fate, and his blackened bones had been all that was recoverable from the wreckage of the Nott Estate. Harry had been suspended quietly, and the incident had been hushed up and buried. His friends in the Ministry had evaporated after making a final favor of clearing his record and protecting his name, and at nineteen years of age, Harry was alone in Grimmauld Place, walking down empty halls that had once echoed with Draco's voice.

If it hadn't been for Minerva's letter…well, there was no point in kidding himself. He'd have gone mad if he hadn't found a way to start his life again. Hogwarts had been a healing balm for a badly battered soul, and this had been his home ever since. John Prewett's voice suddenly interrupted Harry's musings.

"Almost there lad. Steady on. You look a bit peaked still. Can't very well have you tipping over here and there now, can we?"

Harry shook his head, clearing his mind of the fog of memory. "I'm really alright. I swear it. I was just overcome for a moment. I can just wait for Minerva in the waiting room and I'll be fine."

"I'll hear none of that! I didn't get this position by making a habit of ignoring orders! The Headmistress wants you looked at properly, and I'll be doing just that. Here we are then. In you go!"

And that was that. Prewett led him through the ward and into the examination room, then proceeded to rattle off more obscure spells than Harry had imagined necessary. There were a few non-committal grunts from the elder medi-wizard, followed by a few clucking noises that implied disappointment. A wave of his wand and Prewett locked the doors and magically silenced the room. Harry hung his head and sighed, waiting for the conversation he knew was coming.

"I'm a great believer in confidentiality, Mister Potter, but if you don't heed my advice, I assure you that our next conversation will include the Headmistress. I hadn't expected anything like this when we came here, and certainly not of you, but the truth is that your liver is in poor shape for a man of comparatively few years. It's obvious that you've been drinking to some excess for quite some time. There are things that can help with this, and make it very easy to correct the damage, but you'll have to work with me, and follow my instructions. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Mister Potter?"

Harry nodded, biting his tongue and fighting the urge to express outrage over this intrusion into his personal life.

"I don't think you do. I'm talking about cirrhosis of the liver. I'm talking about a slow and ugly death. I'm not here to mince words with you, and I'm too old to be impressed or offended by much of anything. Tell me the truth…will you make a commitment to work with me on this, or will we continue this discussion with our Headmistress present?"

"FINE! Alright! Yes, I fucking drink too much! You think I'm too stupid to know that? I need to bloody sleep! I can't be doped into a stupor on potions or withdrawing from Dreamless Sleep every few weeks. You fucking judge me after you fight a war before you're even out of school! Watch the people you love die all around you…kill so that others can live! I…I…goddamnit! I'm…I'm sorry…it's just…been a hard morning." Harry buried his face in his hands, choking back a mixture of anger and embarrassment. 

"That's a bit better! Nothing wrong with having emotions, lad. I expect you've bottled them up a bit too long. I'll need a few days to prepare some specialized potions for a course of treatment. Some to ease the transition away from the drink, some for sleep if you need it, and another to clear up the damage you've done to yourself. I'll expect you here again in four days. Perhaps after classes are out. I'd like to talk to you then…in depth. Until then, I suggest you start reducing the amount you drink, but don't cut yourself off entirely until I have the potions ready. There's no need to place your body under any further stress. That wouldn't be any better for you than keeping up the drinking. Take some time and think, and come ready to talk…and ready to try. We can have you feeling like a younger man in just a few weeks if you give this your all. 

And Harry…just so you know…I'm not judging you for any of this. I think no different of you than I did a few hours ago, but I won't let you do this to yourself without intervening. Healers take an oath about that kind of thing, and I've never broken mine yet. I'm opening the doors and ending the spells for privacy. We're done for now."

Harry quietly stood up and made his way back to the waiting room. Minerva was on her way, one of his personal secrets was already out to Prewett, he'd passed out in front of the entire staff, and Draco's son was attending Hogwarts. Quite frankly, the day just couldn't get any worse.

Minerva walked into the waiting area, fixing Harry with a concerned look now that there wasn't a cluster of onlookers.

"You are all right, aren't you Harry? You gave us an awful fright back there."

"Oh yes! Not bad at all. It's…a bit personal, but nothing we can't get sorted out easily enough. I'm just sorry to have worried everyone over nothing."

"Very well then," Minerva continued, adopting her usual crisp and professional tone. "I wanted to speak to you privately anyway, Harry. Young Lord Malfoy has only recently claimed the estate of his father after graduating from Durmstrang. Technically speaking, he needs no further schooling. He requested a year here to advance his studies at the school his father attended. Specifically, he requested extensive training in Defense Against The Dark Arts, and he was very specific about wanting to be tutored by you. I'll be assigning you as his personal mentor…Harry? Harry! Master Prewett! Professor Potter has collapsed…again!"

TBC!


	4. When The Walls Come Down

he Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 4: When The Walls Come Down

 

Dumbledore's portrait was taking a nap at the moment, and Harry was almost glad of it. Normally he enjoyed the meetings with the image of his old mentor as much as possible, but today just wasn't one of those days. Prewett had told McGonagall everything, suddenly assuming that Harry's condition was a bit more serious than he had guessed, and when Harry finally came back around, Minerva had quietly asked him to join her in her office. Minerva was currently finishing a Firecall that was unrelated to Harry's problems, and the time to wait only wore on Harry's nerves.

It was just impossible. He couldn't deal with this…not and quit drinking at the same time. Actually, not at any time! It was Draco's bloody son! It was uncomfortably like staring into the Mirror Of Erised, except that Harry saw both his dreams and his nightmares at the same time. The very notion of working closely with the heir of the Malfoy family was ludicrous. He'd have to tell Minerva something. Fifteen years of secrets, and they were quickly crashing down around his ears in a single day! Footsteps were coming his way, and it meant that Minerva was on her way back. Harry crushed his eyes shut and blurted out an apology.

"I'm sorry. Terribly. Headmistress, I really didn't mean for this to…"

Minerva interrupted him with a surprisingly warm tone.

"We aren't here to discuss that, Harry. It isn't that I don't care…I most certainly do, but Master Prewett tells me that the two of you have worked out a course of treatment already. Harry…you are not the first or only teacher at this institution to develop a problem of this nature, and you won't be the last. As long as you work with Master Prewett to help yourself, you have nothing but my complete support…as well as my admiration, and you've had both of those as long as I've known you. What I want to talk to you about is young master Malfoy, though the subject appears to distress you. That's why I thought a measure of privacy might be appropriate. Do you think you can handle this subject now?"

"Yes…I mean no…I mean…oh, hell. It's a sore subject. I'm not sure I can handle this, Minerva. In fact, I'm hoping you'll reconsider this entire matter and see about getting someone else for this. Just…not him. I can't teach him. I just can't."

Minerva McGonagall straightened her bifocals, then fixed Harry with a serious gaze.

"You might feel differently after I tell you a few of the things I've found out. Harry, it is my concern, and the concern of the Ministry's, that that young man is a possible Dark Lord in the making."

Harry shook his head in confusion. That was the last thing he'd expected to hear from Minerva this morning. Nerve rattling discussions of his past and personal life…yes, but the assertion that Draco's heir might be unutterably evil? An already confusing day had just taken a turn for the surreal.

"You can't be serious! He's just a boy. Barely an adult by wizarding and Muggle standards alike. Why on earth would anyone suspect something like that?"

"I'm deadly serious, Harry. After the war ended, the Ministry and Wizengamot enacted a process of screening and information gathering, with the intention of discreetly monitoring certain people that exhibit traits similar to those of past evildoers. The profiles and histories of all known and recorded Dark Lords were studied carefully, and that information is used to weigh whether a 'rising star' should be watched or not. Draco Lucius Malfoy, the new Lord Malfoy, exhibits the classic signs of a Dark power in the making. He is highly secretive, extremely competitive, and overwhelmingly gifted in all of his classes. 

The records from Durmstrang indicate that he showed a remarkable aptitude for dueling, potion making, curses, hexes and jinxes, a complete disregard for authority that got him punished regularly, and a near total contempt for his fellow students. He had no friends that anyone could find, no relationships that might suggest normal interpersonal skills, and he is reputedly as spoiled and as insolent as ever his father was. It was his choice to come here and study Defense Against The Dark Arts with you as his mentor. We have every reason to believe that, once he is certain he has mastered every aspect of that subject and has no equal in skill, he will attempt something out of a reckless need to accomplish what others could not. This may not be anything unlawful, but skill like his does not often rest in silence. I only consented to his coming here because he needs to be placed under close watch, and his every move should be observed until we can ascertain his true goals. This is why I want you to mentor him. Now do you understand what we're dealing with?"

Harry couldn't do more than occasionally open and close his mouth.

_'That cuts it. I must have gone stark, barking mad. I'm nutters in a white room somewhere at a nice hospital, and this is what I'm dreaming. It just can't be real.'_

"I see the cat's got your tongue now, has it? I know it's a bit much to take in all at once, but rest assured, there's no one in a better position to keep a proper eye on our guest than you. I know it all sounds quite dire and grim, but there's no absolute reason to believe the young man really is a danger. It is essential that we observe his progress and behavior…that is all. If you can bring him out of that disdainful shell he seems to be in and make him feel a bit more at home here, well that would be good too. He doesn't strike me as being any worse than his father ever was. More driven and disciplined perhaps, but not evil. It all remains to be seen…and you'll be seeing to just that."

"Minerva, I'm begging you. Don't ask this of me. Master Prewett and I sorted things out…but I have…problems with this. Other problems. I swear to you it's very personal, and I'd really, really rather not talk about it, but if there's no other way to convince you that I can't do this…then tell me so, and I'll try to help you understand my refusal. I would do anything for you or this school…but I can't…I can't do this."

Minerva McGonagall set her jaw. Harry was very dear to her, but this was becoming a bit trying. The intractable young lord wanted Harry, and would simply leave and do who only knew what without Harry Potter as his mentor. The situation was decided, and it was just a matter of getting Harry to accept that fact.

"Harry…there's no need to violate your privacy over this…my answer remains the same no matter what your explanation may be. I expect this of you, not merely as an administrator, but as a friend and mentor as well. Avoiding something difficult or unpleasant will not resolve anything. If you feel you might be uncharitable to the boy because he's the son of someone who got along quite poorly with you in school, think of Severus all those years ago and try to do a bit better. I believe in you, Harry. Even if you don't."

His hands were trembling. He looked down at them and saw them actually trembling. His heart was thundering in his ears, and his vision was blurry. Harry gave a short hysterical little laugh as his mind took in Minerva'a words.

"Ha! Hahaha! You…you think I…I hated him! Heh! You don't understand anything! Mmm…uhh…oh gods…"

Harry began to hyperventilate, forcing words out slowly while Minerva was pulling her wand to prepare for another fainting spell on Harry's part.

"Minerva…you…you don't get it. Draco…after Hogwarts…at Grimmauld Place. He wasn't my enemy. He…he was…my lover."

Minerva dropped her wand in shock, while Harry slid to his knees and wept, shuddering violently, before her desk.

"Oh. Oh…dear me. Harry."

Minerva was too shocked to even pick up her wand. In a million years, she would never have expected a confession like that from Harry. Harry was sucking in lungful after lungful of air, trying to stay conscious in spite of the violent tension he was feeling, and the sound of ragged gasps and stifled sobs were coming the man in front of her. Minerva got to her feet unsteadily and wandered to Harry's side, uncertain of what else to do.

She knew the events of those times as well as anyone who had fought in the war, and followed the news closely after it. She remembered only that Draco Malfoy, their new student's father, had left the Order very suddenly after war had ended. The young man had married and fathered a child, only to wind up dead in France, fleeing the wrath of the Death Eaters he had helped to betray. It was a tragedy, to be certain, and the rumors that came afterward, hinting that Harry had been quite deliberately removed from the Auror service, came back to her with sudden clarity.

She'd heard that Harry had taken up residence at Grimmauld Place, and a few other former members of the Order Of The Phoenix had hinted that Harry desperately needed a new direction for his life. Minerva had already considered asking Harry to come on board as a Professor, but that clinched the matter. He'd been a bit haunted and quiet when he first started, as well as uncertain of himself as a teacher, but he'd done so very well.

Harry had flowered as a person and as an instructor in just a few short years, until no one at Hogwarts could have imagined a time before he was there. The children loved him, the staff respected and liked him, and no one could speak an ill word of the man and be taken seriously. He'd looked more than content all this time, a good friend and a fine teacher, but…he'd held this to himself all these years, and Minerva had never known. The drinking, and the secrecy that came with it, made such sense in this light.

Despite a fearsome reputation and an uncompromising drive to accomplish any goal, Minerva hid a very soft heart, and though she hid it well, it ached to see Harry suffer so. It was utterly surreal, to see him weep this way, and strange to find herself almost in the role of a mother, but she patted Harry's back a bit nervously and tried to calm him.

"Harry…it's alright. I promise you. I'd…I'd no idea that you and Draco were even friends. I'm so sorry, Harry. Whatever you may think, this too can be dealt with, love. You'll be just fine, Harry…just fine…you'll see."

The sobering thought that came to Minerva as she spoke was a single terrible question. Would Harry, as distraught as he clearly was, really be alright? 

 

TBC!!!


	5. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reminisces, handed the day off, and finds himself grateful for an interruption to his thoughts...until he learns who the interruption is.

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 5: Confrontation

 

It was surprising how liberating a moment like that could be. Harry spilled the worst of it, and things had slipped from his mouth that he hadn’t spoken of in almost two decades. Minerva took it all quite well. She was a good friend of many years, and she’d watched the quiet gentleman she knew so well grow from a nervous boy into a decent and capable man. It was a bit of a shock to her system, learning so suddenly that Harry was not only gay, but had remained celibate since the day Draco had left him, and that he’d carried the guilt of several murders with him since he’d quit the Auror service. For the most part, Harry reiterated his inability to cope with seeing the face of the new Lord Malfoy. The thought of seeing that face, lips curled in an arrogant smirk that echoed through decades, filled him with a terror and apprehension he couldn’t even begin to describe.

The oddest part was the shaky, empty sense of relief he felt afterwards. Minerva McGonagall was a harsh taskmistress, but not an ogre. She ordered him to take the day off and return to his suite, and sent for Master Prewett, who would visit Harry a bit later. He barely heard her voice the entire time, still dazed by the realization that his secrets were no longer his own. Pleasantly, the world felt just the smallest bit brighter, especially since not one harsh word had been spoken toward him. It was worth noting, however, that while Minerva did not bring up the subject of teaching the Malfoy heir, neither did she suggest that she had given up. It was something to worry over some other time. Right now, Harry felt terribly wrung out, as if he’d had a long hard day instead of a scant hour since he’d woke.

There was no mistaking it. She meant to make him do this. Probably out of some mixture of perceived necessity and a desire to see Harry confront his past and ’come to terms’ with it. Harry had no desire to ’come to terms’ with anything. Mostly, he wanted to forget. He loved teaching. It afforded endless distractions, and the majority of his days were spent looking after and educating children who had so much potential. Each one was unique, and every situation was handled a little differently. Some needed additional practice, others a boost of confidence, and some needed discipline and a sense of what to do with their talents. These things kept him thinking much of the day and some of the night. The only hard time for Harry had been just before it was time to sleep.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t stopped drinking a few times in the past. He had, but it always ended the same way, with him waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, fighting the urge to scream. Three in the morning knew all of Harry’s secrets, and there was no hiding from his memories without something to dull his mind. 

John Prewett was practically family, and a thorough professional. He was nearing seventy years old, but was as hardy as a man of nearly half his age. There was a good chance that Prewett knew how to blend a few potions that might be more effective than the ones Harry had tried in the past, and that was a small hope to cling to, but Harry still felt his stomach flip when he thought of what Minerva meant to have him do.

It seemed to be a Malfoy tradition in the making. Find the Boy Who Lived and turn his life upside down. Draco Malfoy had done just that, almost twenty years ago. Snape had taken up refuge with Death Eaters at first, while still passing messages to the Order. Draco had been ‘punished’ for his failure to personally kill Dumbledore, first with immediate torture, and then witnessed the murder of his mother. That event broke his mind and his spirit, and the pride that had kept him from begging Snape for help evaporated. When the time came for lines to be drawn and sides to be finally chosen, Draco and Snape had joined the others at Grimmauld Place.

Harry had still been angry then…especially at the potions master who had betrayed them all by taking that damnable oath at Bellatrix’s prompting. He should have been smarter than to let Bellatrix LeStrange set the terms of anything…much less an Unbreakable Vow. As for Draco, while the others scorned him completely, Harry had only felt pity. Draco had been as quiet as the grave since his arrival, and no one but Harry or Snape seemed to feel that this was a problem.

It took days just to get him to talk, and it took two weeks before he would stay in a room with others for more than a few seconds. The knowledge that he’d been played for a fool by a maniac half-blood had not set well with him, and shame was not something that Draco coped with well. Before long, Harry’s continued attempts to drag Draco out of his shell took their toll, and something rather like a bizarre courtship, comprised of bickering and moody silences, emerged from that first glimmering of friendship.

When it became clear that Harry was the only person besides Snape who could stomach his presence, Draco finally broke down and started talking about ‘normal’ things. Quidditch, magic, like and dislikes, and ultimately, his family, his fears and his feelings. He spoke of things to Harry that he’d never shared with anyone, newly confident that Harry would never abuse that knowledge. Sometimes the honorable streak in Gryffindors had its advantages, and Draco came to see that basic truth in Harry.

It happened so fast. One week they were in separate rooms with thoroughly separate lives, and in another week they were suddenly inseparable. Something in Draco had cracked. The façade of indifference and hostility evaporated, and he turned out to be needier emotionally than Harry had imagined, full of insecurities and hidden desires. The others were unaware of it, since neither Draco or Harry wanted to increase the tension in that household during wartime, but behind closed doors they enjoyed an intimacy that no one could have imagined or expected.

Moaning Myrtle’s odd statements came true before Harry’s eyes, and he found Draco to be a thoughtful and sensitive person, alternately worshipful of his parents and yet still terrified of their disapproval even after having clearly broken ranks with them politically. That he’d lost both his parents so suddenly forged a bond between them, both of them orphaned by the whims of the same madman. When he chose to show affection, it was without reservation, frighteningly honest when compared to his usual stoic silence or snarky bickering.

Harry’s life had been dominated by loss for so long that intimacy was simply intoxicating to him, and Draco made their time together a sensual feast. As it turned out, Draco had strongly preferred the passive role in their sexual explorations, but was by no means passive about the act itself. Harry was helplessly enthralled, sating Draco’s every desire as often as they could find the privacy to do so. It was utterly and completely the finest time of his life.

Three months. That was all they had gotten together. They’d never even spoken of whether it was love or not. Just three months of snatched happiness amidst fear and confusion. Then Harry fought Voldemort and won, nearly dying in the attempt. He’d only been well for a little more than a week when Draco had calmly announced his intention to seek out a bride and continue the Malfoy line. When Harry took umbrage at that, Draco had made it clear that he had no intention of doing more than his duty as a Malfoy and as a husband, and that Harry would naturally meet him whenever they could arrange to do so discreetly.

Harry had exploded. There was nothing else to call it. He’d nearly died and his last thoughts had only been of seeing Draco again. Not his parents, not Sirius or Dumbledore, just Draco…the boy he’d been shagging for three months on the sly. That was all it had been for Draco, or he would never have casually asked something so patently disgusting of Harry. The things Harry said that day were terrible, and he regretted them with every breath he’d ever taken since. It had hurt, to have such a thing asked of him, and he’d hurt Draco back in kind. It had ended so terribly, only to end again, forever, when Draco was killed in a cheap hostel in the north of France, trying to make a secretive journey back to England and the Malfoy estate. 

If he’d just asked for extra protection, or if the Auror service had caught wind of the plan earlier instead of after the fact, if Draco had swallowed his pride and asked Harry for help directly…if…if…if.

Harry might never have stared into the blank eyes of the only person he’d ever touched, ever loved, ever known real intimacy with. Draco might still be alive somewhere, and maybe that old angst could have been put aside and some small shadow of the friendship they’d once built might have been revived. Instead, Harry had violated his oath as an Auror and executed three people in cold blood, one in the cruelest manner he could devise at the moment. His life had been indelibly marred by that time and those memories, by the words he’d spoken, and by the deeds he had done. He’d built a new life, one that he could live with in relative peace, as long as he could sleep. What would happen if they took that away?

Harry was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, desperately hoping that John Prewett could do what he’d claimed. The knock at the door was almost welcome by the time it came, interrupting a train of thought that Harry wasn’t really enjoying anyway.

The opened door revealed the rather impatient looking form of Draco, the new Lord Malfoy, foot tapping irritably on the stones of the hall floor.

“Well? You’re a teacher…why in the hell won’t you teach me?”

Suddenly, ugly reminiscences about that past looked quite good compared to Harry’s current situation.

TBC!!!


	6. The Brat

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 6: The Brat

 

Harry stood stock still, frantically attempting to maintain some small shred of decorum, fumbling for something to say.

“I’ll thank you to be more polite to your professors, Mister Malfoy…and-”

“I haven’t got a professor yet! I’ll consider politeness when I do! Will I be taught Defense Against The Dark Arts…here…by you…or will I not? I merely wish to know if I am wasting my time.”

It didn’t seem possible, but this one was actually cheekier than his father! Insufferable!

“How on earth is it that you’re even asking me this? No decision has yet been made…so why are you even at my door pestering me for answers? Who told you I wouldn’t teach you? How did you even find my quarters?”

“Irrelevant. Irrelevant. Irrelevant! If I must be droll, it’s called magic…I’m sure you of all people must have heard of such things. When I want to know something, I find it out, one way or another. Now about my question. Why don’t you want to teach me? Or if you will teach me, stop wavering and just say so, and this conversation will be done.”

Harry was making every effort to avoid looking the young man in the eyes, since a leaden gray gaze would hamstring his ability to speak, which was already suffering. More annoying still, the young man was peeking around Harry’s shoulders and giving little disdainful sniffs as he looked at Harry’s quarters. Harry noticed that the young man was also shorter than his father by quite a bit, as well as slightly broader through the shoulders. There were differences, and though he was momentarily besieged, Harry was still picking them out.

“Well…eh…you see…no official decision has been rendered…and I hadn’t said that I wouldn’t…officially…or that I would, but there are considerations, you see? We should…perhaps we can see about some other courses…what are you staring at? At least pay attention when I’m talking to you!”

Malfoy glanced back irritably, suddenly slipping past Harry and into Harry’s room while Harry stared in gobsmacked awe at the insolence. Malfoy was already idly reading the marked page of one of Harry’s favorite books like this was his own library.

“You’re barely speaking, and when you say something worth hearing, I assure you I’ll listen. I’m staring at this room. You call this quarters? It’s more like an eighth! Maybe a sixteenth! This is where the famous Harry Potter lives? You must believe in austerity and mortification of the flesh and all that rot. I had enough of that at Durmstrang. Great believers in suffering as a form of character building, they are. I happen to think that character can be built at a perfectly respectable rate and still include some creature comforts.”

“How…what do you think you’re doing? These are my private eighths…I mean quarters! Damn it, you were not invited to enter! Get out! Just…just leave me alone! We’ll discuss this formally when something has been decided. A student has no busin-”

“Need I remind you? Not a student…yet! You can fix that quickly if you just get on with it and say yes, although I’m no longer certain of what you might be able to teach me. I always suspected that the legends weren’t quite the reality, but really! I expected something more impressive than some stammering, pedantic buffoon.”

Harry’s fragile grip on his temper snapped. His wand was in hand before he knew what he was doing.

“OUT! NOW! Go to the quarters that were assigned to you! You’ll wait until I bloody well send for you! You want a teacher? You have one! We’ll see if you learn some manners first. When you’re commanded to do something by the staff of this school, you will obey them implicitly, student or no. Conduct yourself with the deportment befitting your station, or I will remove you from the grounds myself! Do not test me on this, Mister Malfoy.”

Draco Malfoy’s nostrils were flared, and his eyes gleamed with a feral joy.

“That’s a bit more like it. As you wish, sir. I will await your summons…eagerly. Thank you for your time.”

The young man offered a short bow and walked from the room with his back erect and his chin up, smirking all the while. When the door closed behind him, Harry stopped and realized what he’d just agreed to.

‘My god. This is going to be a sentence in hell. It’s like he was raised by a pack of wolves. Even…even Draco wasn’t that obnoxious, or has time just colored my memories to show favor on him? I can’t believe I just told him I’d teach him! How am I going to get out of this? It’s…it’s untenable. He’s insolent, impertinent, arrogant and possibly amoral. I’ve got to…got to get a grip on all of this…’

There was another knock at the door, and since Harry was still standing beside it, stunned and reeling, the interruption was very unwelcome. He jerked the door open, fully expecting to see Draco Malfoy waiting for him, impudent smirk still affixed to his face.

“What, damn you!? I…oh…sorry, John.”

John Prewett smiled mildly and held out a potion.

“Hmmph. I can guess at the source of your stress. I just saw a very saucy young man walking from here, looking like a cat that just got its fill of cream. You don’t seem to deal well with the notion of being his teacher, do you? Take this, and drink it all. It’ll calm you down a bit without leaving you sluggish.”

Harry stepped out of the way, motioning for John to enter, and then took the offered potion, uncorking it and downing it quickly before he closed the door.

“Ahh! Thank you. I feel better already. Not bad tasting, either. You’re right, too. That boy is trouble. I don’t think I can teach him. I really don’t…but I can’t think of a way to get out of this without leaving behind a job I love. Minerva isn’t likely to just give in, that boy is impossible, and I’m not in any shape to deal with this. I am grateful for your help though, even though I’m not sure what good it will really do.”

John Prewett took the spare chair at Harry’s small table, motioning politely for Harry to sit down. The older gentleman removed his spectacles, breathing onto them before cleaning them gently with his sleeve. When they were affixed to his nose and he’d established that all was in working order, John finally spoke.

“I was going to save this conversation until a few days from now, but you’re overwrought already and it’s clear that we must sort a few things out right now. Harry, I hope you’ll listen to me seriously when I suggest that in addition to treatments for your liver and for your nerves, I’d like you to undertake a course of therapeutic psychological examination. This morning has made it clear that you have poor coping skills matched with a very high level of anxiety, and it’s only gone undiagnosed because you successfully avoided a thorough check up for quite some time. In short, there’s hardly any point in healing your body if you don’t equip yourself with the tools to keep it healthy. Undue stress could drive you back to the point you’re at now in a matter of months, and so I think a more comprehensive level of treatment would be appropriate. Would you be willing to consider this?”

Harry blinked. “I…I need a shrink? If you want to reduce my stress, convince Minerva to let Malfoy go back to his estate and play Lord Of The Manor there. I’m not sure I really want to talk about my feelings, and I’ve already explained myself to Minerva…to no avail. I’ll be glad to see what you can do for my sleep and for my liver, but…but I really don’t like the notion of talking to a stranger. Do you really think this is serious enough to call for that?”

Harry’s tone was calm, and he realized that the potion had worked handsomely. He was still clear headed, but his stomach had stopped aching and the headache he’d felt creeping up minutes ago had fled entirely.

“Harry, it doesn’t have to be a complete stranger. I’m qualified enough to work with you on this. I was working with St. Mungo’s during and after the war, and I assure you that you are not the only person who had experiences that were troubling. There are enormous benefits to be gained from just a little effort and some applied psychology. It in no way reflects poorly upon you to accept treatment. I also think that Minerva is right to expect you to meet your obligations instead of avoiding them. If you find something unnerving, perhaps you should look at resolving the source of your emotional distress, and not resort to fleeing from it. I’m just observant enough to have noticed that your incidents today have revolved around the presence of or the mention of that young man. I haven’t much time today, but I’d still like you to tell me what it is that causes you such an adverse reaction to him.”

Harry sighed quietly, and ran his hand through his hair, rubbing his temples briefly while he mustered himself. He’d already spoken to Minerva. What could it hurt if he told John Prewett?

“Look…I told you I agreed to follow your recommendations, and if you think this would help, I’m not unwilling to try it, but there are some things that even you might be surprised to hear. I know you’ll keep this in confidence, or I wouldn’t even say it. John…Draco Malfoy…that boy’s father….was my lover during the war and just after. I don’t know how much you recall of the war and the troubles just after it, but when I was an Auror, I killed the men who murdered that boy’s parents. In cold blood. I hunted them, and I killed them, and it was covered up to spare my reputation. I would have been in Azkaban if the Ministry hadn’t cleaned everything up afterwards. If this gets out, my time here is over. Even Harry Potter wouldn’t get away with murder…if people knew what he’d done. When I look at that boy, all I see is his dead father. And that isn’t all. The relationship ended a mess, because Draco wanted to marry and have an heir…because he wanted a son, and that son is not someone I want to sit in a room with five days a week. Can anyone understand why I feel that way?”

John Prewett stroked his chin, nodding sagely.

“Good that you’re speaking of it, Harry, but I should tell you that I haven’t changed my opinion much. I agree that you have a right to feel as you do. Perhaps you did some things that were clearly wrong, but before you rush to judgment on yourself, remember that you’ve done some truly remarkable things as well. I can see that we’ll have some things to talk about, but if you’re willing to push yourself to speak of these things, I’m sure you’ll make admirable progress. Harry, you are a good man by anyone’s definition, and there isn’t one person in this castle who has ever had a harsh word from you. You’re well and rightly loved by a lot of people, and not without good reason. I think you’re carrying a lot more old pain than is healthy for anyone, and I think that, when you let it go, you’ll look at life quite a bit differently. The war was ended more than fifteen years ago, Harry, and a lot of questionable things were done in its name. There‘s no reason for you to carry the weight of that time alone.”

Harry sat quietly a moment, honestly glad that his confession hadn’t brought condemnation. Perhaps John could look at Harry the same way, knowing that he was talking to someone who had killed for vengeance, but Harry found it hard to imagine forgiving himself for what he’d done. The potion made it much easier to think and speak of these things, and John Prewett spoke again before Harry could form an answer.

“I’ve a ward waiting for me to attend to it, and several potions to set brewing for you. My original diagnosis still holds though…cut back the drinking slowly over the next few days, take the rest of today off since Minerva has already volunteered herself as your replacement for the day, and don’t hesitate to call me or visit if you experience something difficult. Communication is key to my ability to help you. I’ll have another potion like the one I brought ready for you tomorrow morning before your classes start. Visit my office and we’ll make sure you can cope with whatever comes your way, right?”

Harry nodded, still lost in thought, and thanked John quietly before the man left. The afternoon passed quietly, with a spot of tea and just a few inquiries from friends like Ron and Neville, as well as other coworkers, about his health. He’d caused quite a stir, and only two people knew why, the rest had to be assured that all was well, otherwise he’d have had an endless stream of visitors. As it was, when the early evening came and Harry enjoyed the supper brought by the castle house-elves, Harry had sorted out a bit of what he felt about the cruel lot that had been dealt him.

He Firecalled Minerva, and after making it clear that his acceptance was temporary, pending a full personal interview with ‘the brat’, and that, if he consented to teach said brat, he would teach this independent student with no house or ties in any way he saw fit. Harry sat by his fireplace contentedly, wondering if he’d have been better off just quietly leaving Hogwarts. Maybe John was right, and it was something Harry should learn from instead of avoiding, but even calmed by potion and whiskey, with a favorite book in hand, he suspected that he’d just set himself up for more trouble than anything could be worth.

TBC!!!


	7. The Interview

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 7: The Interview

 

Harry’s day started well enough. John Prewett administered two potions to Harry before classes began, breakfast was quite good, and Harry easily passed off rumors about his ’incident’ the day before to a simple flu that had gone uncaught. The brat made no appearance that morning, at Harry’s room or during breakfast, and Harry was pleased that his orders had been obeyed, though he hadn’t expressly forbidden the young man to join the school for breakfast. Harry’s classes ran smoothly, save for the answering of questions about whether he was well or not, which were actually kind of sweet. The majority of his students were very fond of him, and had genuinely worried for him over a single missed day. Once Ron and the others had seen that he was alright and seemed well enough, the questions died to down to a bare minimum, and Harry felt that he could get on with something like a normal day.

Harry remained in the office behind his classroom after his classes were done, and when he had the majority of his paperwork ready, he sent an elf to fetch Malfoy. Just using the name still rankled, but Harry had had all day to work out his approach and determine how he would deal with the insouciant boy. Politeness had failed utterly, but the threat of force and a tone of authority had worked quite well, and so Harry decided on a detached sort of vague disapproval, hoping that if he kept the brat wondering what was ’too far’, it might diminish the amount of saucy commentary he had to endure. He’d resigned himself to attempting this, but he by no means intended to be a complete pushover while he did so.

A polite rap at the door a few minutes later brought Harry’s eyes up, and though the door was open, Draco Malfoy was waiting at the entrance, his face an expressionless mask. If the current state of affairs continued, Harry was almost ready to embrace the notion that yesterday’s fiasco had been a fluke, and that this young man had some potential. He had the files from Durmstrang in front of him, and he dismissively waved the boy in.

“Enter and take a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” Malfoy walked in quickly once invited and seated himself, his back erect in his chair, chin raised just enough to hint at defiance without seeming too obvious about it. As long as it was kept down to a bare minimum, Harry was willing to let it slide.

“Mister Malfoy, I have agreed, at least for the short term, to act as your mentor in Defense Against The Dark Arts, on the condition that this interview between us, now, goes well. Be informed that the events of yesterday do not stand in your favor. If you wish to be a student, you will conduct yourself like one, whether you have one teacher or twenty, and you will treat the entire staff with the respect they are due. If you answer my questions to my satisfaction, I will give due consideration to making the arrangement last through the entire year. At that point, we will further discuss things such as schedule and assignments, as well as what it will take to fit you into the regimen here at Hogwarts. Do you understand me and is this acceptable to you?”

Draco Malfoy nodded silently and respectfully, which in and of itself was a surprise. His words came a few seconds later, just as Harry had been about to take up where he left off.

“Professor…I apologize for my behavior yesterday. I became very anxious when I thought that my request would be rejected out of hand. I hope you will forgive my insolence, and be assured that I am very serious about my studies. I would not disappoint you as a student.”

Harry bristled a little, unsettled by Malfoy’s contrite apology. Harry didn’t want to be unsettled, and he certainly didn’t want to feel or act disarmed. He’d been insulted and taken for an easy mark because he’d been too shocked to take command of the situation, and he would not let that happen to him twice.

“Well spoken, Mister Malfoy, but do not think that I am easily swayed by anything less than hard facts and unflinching honesty. Let us begin. Tell me precisely what you hope to gain from coming to Hogwarts. Give me any reasons you may have, and I will decide if they are sufficient cause to pull me away from my regular duties.”

“My marks were perfect or nearly perfect at Durmstrang, but Durmstrang has a very different curriculum from Hogwarts. I hope to gain knowledge and training that might have been overlooked there. I read extensively, but practical application of some spells is safer under supervision and with instruction by those who have used such magics before. This is also the school of my father. I want to walk its halls, and know some of it as he knew it, because…I did not get to know him. He was killed…along with my mother when I was one year old. I assumed you would understand what that is like. You are the foremost expert in Defense Against The Dark Arts currently teaching anywhere in the world. You also killed a Dark Lord at the height of his power. You survived or resisted all three of the Unforgivable Curses. This is not idle flattery, sir. I would have to be a fool to ignore the opportunity to improve my skills by studying under a professor with such credentials, and I am not a fool.”

It was all spoken so matter-of-factly. Harry forgot his next question for a moment, and found himself staring into the face across the desk, looking for any sign of deceit or manipulation. He saw none that he could recognize, but Malfoy’s jaw was tight, and the hesitance with which he spoke of his family rang throughout. The faintest hint of a bitter and angry sneer was playing at the corner of Draco’s mouth, but he remained silent, waiting for Harry to speak again.

Draco’s face was a handsome blend of both his parents’ features. Where Draco had been tall and slender, this boy was shorter and more of average proportion. The fiercely aristocratic features of his father had been tamed with the softer features of his mother, and the result was a young man of exceptional attractiveness, when one looked past the sullen and smoldering arrogance. Harry shook himself free of such musings and pushed forward, struggling to regain his equilibrium.

“You assume correctly that I understand how that must feel, and I hope that you understand that, though I sympathize, the matter has no bearing on whether or not you merit an education here. Your other reasons strike me as entirely legitimate, and well thought out. To continue, I have your records from Durmstrang, and there are several matters I wish to discuss. You were disciplined often, and despite nearly perfect marks in all classes. This does not make sense to me. High academic achievement, especially at this level, rarely goes hand in hand with continued disciplinary problems. Explain this to me.”

Draco looked uncomfortable, suddenly developing an intense interest in the surface of Harry’s desk.

“I have been told that…that I am occasionally…intemperate…and that I sometimes speak my mind under inappropriate circumstances.”

Harry bit his tongue, but a chuckle emerged anyway, followed by a snort while he tried to restrain laughter. Draco smirked faintly, then nervously wiped his brow, obviously holding back laughter of his own, uncertain if it was safe for him to speak openly. Harry’s barely contained amusement emboldened him.

“I suppose you already knew that part though.”

Harry guffawed. “I might have noticed that, yes. Seriously…you mean to say that despite a long succession of disciplinary actions, you still spoke inappropriately to your instructors? You seem much too gifted to let petty things distract you. Give me just a little more detail than that. I don’t want what they said, I want what you felt was going on.”

Draco looked at him with genuine curiosity, and framed a cautious question.

“You won’t think me impertinent if I answer honestly, will you?”

“There is a difference between being offensive and being honest…even if the two sometimes intersect. If you aren’t being insulting to the students or staff here, I have no qualms about hearing your thoughts on the education you received at Durmstrang.”

Draco wrung his hands, looking a bit uncertain still. “I never met anyone who implied that the truth could be insulting, and still be the truth. I don’t…I don’t think I’m very good at pretending I’m less talented than I am. Frankly, I was better than some of my teachers, or at least I had more innate power. I feel that I was sometimes treated harshly or held back when certain teachers felt that I needed to be shown that they were superior to me…even if they weren’t. I should have had perfect marks across the board. I performed the spells better than any of my classmates, but when I was marked poorly, or rather poorly by my standards, I always spoke up. Consequently, I found myself at odds with my instructors. I understand that it looks poorly on my record, but I will not be told to be ashamed of myself for success when others fail.”

Harry took this in, finding himself more at ease as the conversation moved forward. He’d never really had to interview a prospective student before, and despite the name and similar appearance, this boy was very different from the young man that Harry had known long ago. It was somewhat less stressful when he was able to remind himself that he was dealing with an entirely different person. It was likely the lingering efficacy of John’s potion-making skills as well, but the end result was that Harry felt much more comfortable than he had anticipated.

“Mister Malfoy, you will not find success being dismissed, or talent being quashed, at Hogwarts. Of that, I can assure you. Principles of cooperation and unity amongst wizards and witches of all backgrounds are taught here, and talent and dedication are to be praised. If it’s any comfort at all, about twenty years ago, I had a professor a bit like what you describe. Made a perfectly decent class into a nightmare for me. I’ve used that experience to gauge what not to do as a teacher ever since. I think we can ensure that you won’t feel cheated of any accolades you might earn, though I expect you to not lord it over the other students if you can possibly help it. I have a few last questions for you now, and we‘ll see where we go from there. The report from Durmstrang says that you had no friends, no associates, and almost no social network or peers to speak of. You seem bright and well spoken, so again…this makes no sense to me. Explain, if you will?”

Draco’s jaw tightened again, and Harry was concerned for a moment that he’d lost ground or touched a subject as sore for this boy as some of his own were for him. Draco answered quietly, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

“I…I had other concerns. I like to read, and childish games never interested me. I was smarter than most of the other students, and they liked being upstaged about as much as my teachers did. Sometimes being good at something doesn’t make you any friends.”

“I see. That brings us to my final inquiry. You said that you became very anxious when you thought you wouldn’t receive tutoring in Defense Against The Dark Arts by me. That anxiety moved you to barge into my quarters barking questions and demanding answers. It was unseemly, but what I really want to know is why you felt such anxiety. Your marks are still good enough to train anywhere in the world. Why me? Why here? Why such anxiety over a possible refusal?”

Draco looked Harry directly in the eyes, searing Harry’s mind with leaden gray orbs that seemed faintly haunted for a moment.

“Because…to come here, to learn from you, to see this school…that has been my only goal since I was thirteen. This is what I have endured the rigors and inadequacies of Durmstrang for. I admit that I became upset when I thought that all I have worked for was to mean nothing, and that I would be going home before my bags were even unpacked. My apology was sincere, and I cannot say how grateful I am that you have reconsidered. There is no other person I wish to learn these arts from, and no other place I wish to learn them.. That is why.”

Harry decided to leave off the questioning for the time being. Draco’s directness and candor had shaken him just a little, and it looked as if it had shaken Draco as well. Harry had gained some insight into the young man that concerned the Ministry so much, and perhaps it wouldn’t be such a terrible burden, working with a talented and seemingly wounded youth like this. It would be complicated, to be sure, but with John Prewett helping Harry along the way, it might just be possible to see an end to this that left everyone the better for it. Maybe it was the potions talking, granting a brief immunity from stress, but Harry felt surprisingly better about the task in front of him, and his relaxed smile let that sentiment show.

“Draco, Lord Malfoy, let’s discuss what to do with your time at Hogwarts. Congratulations…you’re now a student…again. Let‘s see if we can make the experience a little more worth your while.”

TBC


	8. Difficult Days Ahead

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 8: Difficult Days Ahead

 

There was a look of unrestrained relief on Draco’s face, and Harry tried very hard to maintain his professional demeanor. It was rather trickier than he’d thought, keeping his distance from this likable, yet mercurial and complex young man who bore the name that still bit at Harry’s heart. Harry hurried forward, moving to the next topic.

“That having been said, we do need to discuss Hogwarts life and how to blend you into it. It’s a little more complicated than it sounds. You are eighteen, and as an adult in the eyes of the Wizarding and Muggle world alike, you retain the unique option of leaving when you please. Let me be clear on this point…while you may have freedoms that other students do not, if you should abandon Hogwarts to avoid responsibility or accountability for your behavior while studying here, you will not be readmitted. This institution’s rules regarding appropriate conduct and the treatment of other students and staff will be followed to the letter.

You will not be part of the House system, since that would create a disruption to the other students, not to mention an unfair advantage to the House that received you as a member. You may take that as a compliment, since it’s an acknowledgement of the fact that you’re considered to be well ahead of even our seventh year students. You shall have your own quarters, and you may dine alone or with the rest of the school. You may also leave the school grounds and visit Hogsmeade whenever you find yourself with the time to do so. 

Additionally, though you have specifically cited a desire to study Defense Against The Dark Arts, I will need time to measure your skills myself, and prepare a curriculum accordingly. You strike me as a young man who rises to whatever task is before him, and deals poorly with idle time. I think it would be appropriate for you to take additional classes here in subjects that weren’t covered heavily at Durmstrang. They have no formal course in Divinations, and I suspect the course would be of interest to you, especially since Firenze, the centaur, is our professor for that subject.”

Draco had looked a bit irritable about additional classes at first, but his expression shifted to one of naked interest when Firenze was mentioned.

“Really? A centaur? Just like in the Greek myth…the one about the teacher of noble sons. Brilliant. Durmstrang had a course in esoteric mysticism, and I’m conversant with the definitions and mechanics of most forms of divination, but I have no practical experience with that sort of thing.”

“Yes. Excellent. Firenze has greatly improved our curriculum on that subject and I think we can arrange for you to join his class on Mondays and Fridays at noon. I can talk to Professor Chang about her advanced course in Arithmancy. She has a few exceptional students in a special class for that subject, and I see you had high marks in it at Durmstrang. They meet Tuesday and Thursday mornings at nine. I see that Durmstrang has no course in Care Of Magical Creatures. There are only two seventh year and three sixth year students in a combined course for that this year, and I’d like to recommend that you join them Wednesdays at three.”

Draco seemed noncommittal at best, but willing to defer on the subject, he looked a little sheepish, drawing Harry’s attention.

“Yes?”

“Well, technically, they did have a course about magical creatures…but it was called Eldritch Taxonomy. Mostly how to kill things and what to do with the bits afterwards. Potion ingredients, wand materials, that kind of thing. I don’t suppose it really compares well though…since ‘care’ sounds quite a bit different.”

“Very! Do me a kindness and don’t tell Professor Hagrid about the Taxonomy class. He has a great respect for all living creatures, even the frightening or grotesque ones, and you’d be surprised how many useful things you might learn from him. Now, as for myself, I mean to have you sit in on my courses from fifth year and up when you can, though you may study the material I give you while class is in session if you wish. We’ll work on building a curriculum for you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings before supper, just after my last class of each day. I will be contacting an old friend of mine as well, since you show an aptitude for magical theorems and formulae, and if it can be arranged, Hermione Granger-Weasley may be visiting to work out some class time with you.”

“THE Hermione Granger-Weasley?! The one who wrote ‘Quantum Physics And Its Applications And Operations In The Magical Universe’? I almost saw her speak at the World Of Magic Symposium in Brussels, but I couldn’t get permission to attend. I was fifteen and school was in session. Please tell me you can get her to come, even if it’s only for a day!”

Harry was a bit taken aback by the overwhelming excitement he saw, and a little impressed by the fact that Draco had clearly done some research at a level far beyond most people’s abilities…even Harry’s. Granted, Harry had studied and taught DADA for fifteen years, and was the best at what he did, but Hermione was in a league of her own. To be honest, there wasn’t even a league, and she was actually blazing a trail of her own through the magical wilderness. He also wasn’t used to people reacting with far more excitement over her than for him…it was actually a little chastening.

“Well, if the notion interests you that much, I’ll ask her as soon as I can, and I’m willing to venture that she’d be happy to meet anyone so enamored of her work. Mind you, she can’t visit often…she has quite a life of her own, and that involves her husband and five children, but she still makes time here and there to visit Hogwarts and instruct on Theoretical Magic. The idea is that, though the emphasis will be on Defense Against The Dark Arts, as you requested, you will not have considerable idle time. Since you cannot be graded in the traditional fashion and aren't a student in the traditional sense, we will offer accreditation in these topics only if you meet or exceed our expectations. I should add that Hogwarts’ expectations are not low. Do you think you can handle this?”

The arrogant smirk was back in place, which was good, since Harry had pushed a few touchy subjects during their conversation and really didn’t wish to explore them in more detail until later. He already had a few things Minerva would like to know, and the boy seemed fairly cheerful about the outcome of the interview. All in all, it had gone better than he could have hoped.

“I can handle just about anything once I’ve put my mind to it. I take it that there is a means for me to acquire materials for these classes?”

“Yes. I’m told you paid a considerable sum to attend Hogwarts for a year as a special student, and consequently, now that we have agreed on a series of courses for you, the books and supplies you require will be sent to your quarters by tomorrow morning. Will that suffice?”

“Thank you. I’m very much looking forward to all of this, sir. I’ll see you at breakfast then?”

“Of course, along with the rest of the school. I believe that completes our interview, Mister Malfoy. Get your rest while you can, you’ll be as busy as the rest of our students very soon. That will be all.”

Draco Malfoy rose from his chair and gave a formal short bow, then sauntered out of the room with more confidence than he’d entered with. Harry mused over what he’d learned while he readied himself for a short Firecall conference with Minerva.

It was somewhat disorienting, associating the name Draco with someone so very different from the man Harry had known. This young man was possessed of a searing intellect, and was terribly high strung. He was nowhere near as adept at hiding his emotions as his father was, and he seemed far more driven than any pupil Harry had ever had. The cruel irony that they had both lost their parents to murder while barely out of infancy struck Harry as well. If Harry was any judge of such things, the young man’s bravado and arrogance was likely a front, hiding insecurities and fears in the oldest tradition of adolescence. The question of the hour was what kind of man would emerge from the shell the boy left behind?

Harry scattered a hint of Floo powder across the surface of the coals, then popped his head into Minerva’s office when the Firecall was accepted.

“Hello, Harry. Come on through if you’d like. I’ve nothing but a bit of paperwork to keep me company right now, and the break would be most welcome.”

“Right then. Be there in a moment, Headmistress. Harry withdrew from the Firecall and took the Floo properly. Hogwarts was not fully attached to the magical world’s Floo Network, but rather had its own independent and closed system, operating entirely within the castle, with limited access to other places. A second later, he stepped out of Minerva’s fireplace and dusted his robes off before taking a seat.

Minerva MacGonagall looked a bit impish. It was probably because Harry, despite all the histrionics, was doing what she’d expected of him after all. It still annoyed him to no end that he’d been pushed and shoved into this against his will, but John Prewett’s efforts hadn’t been in vain. Harry felt quite well for a man who’d just spent nearly a half hour chatting with the son of his murdered lover. It reeled the mind when he thought of it carefully, but it hadn’t been anything like what he’d imagined.

“You look quite well, Harry. You had a productive meeting with Mister Malfoy, I take it?”

“Very much so. I can’t say this will be easy, but I can say with a certain confidence that I think the Ministry is worried without good cause. He doesn’t really seem any more rash or hasty than other people his age, and the insolence and arrogance we were concerned over seem to be the result of intellectual isolation. I imagine it would be hard to fit in with other children with a mind like his. Shades of Hermione back in the day. I’m a little concerned with his poor control of his temperament and his sharp tongue, which I expect we’ll see again before the year is done, but other than that, I think he’ll be a remarkable student and a credit to whatever endeavor he chooses to undertake as an adult.”

Minerva raised an eyebrow. “He certainly won you to his cause a bit quicker than I expected. I’m glad you’ve come around, but don’t be too quick to dismiss the Ministry’s interest in this. Youth rarely blends well with exceptional power. You were and are a rare case, and I’ve always credited Albus’ influence with bringing the very best of you to the forefront of your character. Many another person would have abused their fame and talents, and remember that this is a new environment for Draco Malfoy. He may not react as positively as you hope, now that he is no longer a student of Durmstrang and possesses a fortune to be reckoned with and considerable power at his fingertips. Tell me what you’ve learned, and I’ll keep it in mind before I compose a first report to the Ministry.”

“Well, it seems as though he felt that his talents were being held back by his instructors at Durmstrang, largely out of jealousy for his innate gifts. He freely admitted that his disciplinary record was the result of arguing with his school’s instructors on a fairly regular basis. Being the star pupil didn’t exactly lend itself to instant popularity with most of the other students, and he shows a marked and believable preference for studying over social activities. As I said, he reminds me quite a bit of Hermione at that age. Further, his primary goals seem to be establishing himself as the leader in the field for his generation, with tutoring by me as his final accreditation. I expect he’ll probably look at teaching or writing on the subject of DADA someday.”

Minerva raised a hand and Harry paused. “Harry, before you dismiss the impact of his time at Durmstrang, I think you should be made aware of what discipline means. Here, it is detentions and the loss of privileges, but at Durmstrang it is often corporal punishment, especially after repeated offenses. I want you to consider for a moment the stability of a mind that would argue with authority after being routinely punished by use of a switch across the back or by a whip. More than mere stubbornness is at play here.”

Harry was aghast. His stomach roiled for a moment before he could even speak.

“Minerva! That’s…that’s barbaric! Outrageous! Do you mean that those marks on his record, dozens of them, all signify beatings? It’s unconscionable! The Ministry shouldn’t be investigating him, they should be looking into what kind of maniacs would inflict something like that on a gifted child!”

“I agree entirely, Harry, but that is sadly beside the point. Durmstrang still clings to ancient traditions that Hogwarts discarded decades ago. At question is this: was that boy’s pride so overwhelming that he would endure seven years of regular beatings, almost monthly, or did he have or develop some purpose or intention that drove him to conflict with his teachers even under threat of physical punishment? More importantly still, could their abusive treatment of him have left a lasting hatred for all forms of authority? Ideally, if we can resolve that he has no harmful intentions, I can make a final report to the Ministry and his name will be dropped from the rolls of those who are ’observed’. If you feel strongly that he means to make the most of his education, help me prove it. If at all possible, I hope to see a young man leave here healthier and wiser for the time he spent. That should be a goal you agree with…I hope. But…we must also consider that he is highly intelligent, and may, by all reports, be capable of manipulating people quite skillfully. Take the lad at his word if you wish, but keep your own counsel as to his intentions. Those aren‘t yet entirely clear to us.”

Harry was still stifling outrage, reminding himself that Minerva was not the source of what angered him. It was horrifying to think that youngsters were subjected to such treatment anywhere in the Wizarding world, and if it hadn’t been for the influence of John’s well-brewed potions, Harry was sure he’d have been trembling with fury right now. As it was, his face was hot with the kind of anger he hadn’t felt since he was much younger.

It was decided in that instant. It wasn’t entirely conscious, but in that moment of seething anger, Harry drew a line in the sand of his soul. Draco’s only child deserved better than to have suffered such things, and if Harry was to have any say in it, the boy would have a better impression of authority before he was finished here. If it took enduring an uncomfortable presence or difficult memories, so be it, but Draco Malfoy would know that not all people were so cruel or petty. Harry was certain that Draco was no Dark Lord in the making, but he was troubled, and that would have to be dealt with carefully.

John Prewett might be helping Harry along the way, but perhaps with John’s advice to soothe his own tired and frayed nerves, Harry could bring the young man to open up a bit more. There had to be a way to make this work…and Harry meant to find it.

“I agree. I’ll do my best, Minerva. I don’t know how anyone could endure that kind of thing and come away with a healthy view of the world, but there has to be a way for us to make sure he’s on the road to a decent life. I’m not sure I can do anything about the way I feel, and I don’t think any of you will ever really understand how much I miss his father, but I owe his father this much…I will find a way to do the best I can for Draco, even if it drives me half scatty in the process.”

Minerva smile at Harry’s wry smirk, and nodded approvingly. Albus’ portrait had woken up and applauded lightly, smiling down at them.

“Here, here to that! Good show, my boy! I’ve never known you to run from difficulty…if anything, you were always one foot into it before you knew what you were doing, but you always found a way, and you always did the right thing in the end. Proud of you as always, lad, proud of you as always.”

“Albus is right, Harry. I have every confidence that you’ll be the key to resolving this, but don’t forget to take better care of yourself…or John will never forgive me, and I won’t hear the end of it for a long time to come.”

Harry made his peace with the task ahead of him, but the lingering concern was still with him…what damage was done to this boy before he made it to Hogwarts, and was it even the sort of thing that could be dealt with here?

\------------------------------------------------------------

Draco Malfoy returned to his private suite, slipping off the long robes he wore for classes. His wand flicked while he muttered spell after spell, warding his room with all the caution of a practiced Auror. When his room was silenced and sealed from all intrusion, even the mildest of scrying, he turned to the heavy chest of oak at the foot of his bed.

The spells upon it bordered on Dark, and required the greatest of care to remove, spell by spell, in the proper order, to avoid serious harm. He opened the chest with a quiet intensity, and withdrew from the very bottom of it a single book, bound in fine leather and gold. This he placed upon his desk with reverence, and with a small knife he nicked his finger, letting three drops fall upon the golden lock of the book, whispering breathily to it all the while. The softest of clicks could be heard, and he opened the slim volume near the center, turning a few pages until he found the one he wanted. Then he began to read, candlelight flickering into the night, eyes fixed firmly upon the pages of the book, until exhaustion brought him low.

TBC!!!


	9. Good Advice

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 9: Good Advice

 

Those first days before Draco’s schooling began in earnest were quite pleasant. Harry only really saw Draco at breakfast, seated quietly at a table near the back of the room, and on two occasions in the library. When Monday came around, Harry would begin tutoring, and he was thankful for the time to build a suitable curriculum for his protégé.

John Prewett provided potions that soothed Harry’s nerves admirably, and it was a safe prediction that, by the end of the week, Harry would be able to put aside the whiskey for good, and sleep better than he had before. The potions were fairly complicated, and merely masked Harry’s dreams from his conscious mind, allowing him to sleep without waking and remember nothing, though his dreams would go on unabated. Harry could never have brewed such things alone, and it was a fortunate thing that Prewett had the experience that he did. Additionally, the potion for Harry’s liver was ready at last, and would be administered every week for a month, but the taste was abominable, and Harry already dreaded the month to come. Still, he was already down to a single, large glass of drink each night, and in a few days he’d be ready for none at all.

Despite his best hopes for a perfect transition to dream free slumber, nagging memories and images had haunted his early mornings lately. Nothing too terrible, given that some of his dreams were downright frightening, but these were still stressful, especially given what he was soon to undertake with Draco’s heir. The last few days had taunted Harry with wispy images of Draco. His Draco, still tall and young and proud, staring intently at Harry through mists and whispering words that couldn’t quite be made out. He’d heard his own name though, spoken with the affection he remembered from the best of the times he’d had. That was enough to wake Harry from sound slumber, sweating profusely, fighting the urge to tear up in spite the many years that had passed.

So little time. What he’d felt then had been so passionate, almost violent in its own soft way. He’d never loved…until Draco had cracked open a lonely heart that was hungrier for closeness than Harry had even imagined. He had taken such pleasure from that time, so much joy in every small thing. He’d felt truly, wildly, desperately alive…and then it was gone, and the emptiness he’d felt had left him a broken and terrified creature, scared of letting anyone else into his heart, and terrified of letting anything dilute the strength of what he’d felt for Draco Malfoy. The only way to convince himself that his feelings were pure and real had been to hang onto them, never letting anything strip them from him, and he’d done just that. Now all he had were those memories, but they made it hard to keep a proper perspective on Draco’s son. 

Young Draco had been quiet and reserved, if a little stiff, for the entire weekend, and Harry could tell that the young man was very uncomfortable in his new environment. He’d meant to talk about it before their first class together, but his first therapy meeting with John took precedence.

They passed it off as a meeting to discuss the needs of students, covering for Harry admirably, but it still felt strange to sit in a chair across from John Prewett, sipping tea and chatting idly while the man nudged the conversation into more controversial territory. The questions didn’t come in any order, or with any great pressure behind them, but Harry realized a pattern was emerging, simply encouraging him talk about subjects that seemed unrelated at first, but ultimately guided him toward feelings and memories he’d never discussed. Even though he knew what John was trying to do, Harry was uncomfortable with the entire process, and though he’d made up his mind to think of things he may have repressed, he didn’t offer up any information that John didn’t ask about directly.

After a single session like that, thinking of what to do with Draco was easy by comparison. Monday evening came, and after seeing Draco sit quietly through Harry’s fifth year class, staring intently at Harry or scribbling notes all the while, it was time for them to begin their work before dinner. Draco waited until the class was dismissed, then followed Harry into the office, taking his seat with a restless eagerness.

“Well, I gave due thought to our conversation, and since you mentioned the differences between our curriculum and Durmstrang’s, I have decided on a good way to start your studies. We need to know what we can offer you that you haven’t already learned. You’ve been provided with copies of our standard book of spells for seventh year students, but I have laid aside the books for all the earlier years. I want you to undertake a search of each book, and prepare for me a list of every spell that you find unfamiliar, complete with the instructions for its use and purpose. When you have completed all seven books, bring me the list, cross referenced by year and spell name, and we shall begin our work with those.

“When we begin that work, we will also take time to practice those spells which you already know, just to get a feel for your relative competence with them, and to keep existing skills fresh. Nothing too complicated, but a bit time consuming. I’ll leave you to complete it at your leisure, but I still expect you to meet the requirements in your other classes, and appear in my classes as scheduled. Understood?”

Draco nodded somberly. “Yes. I am sure I can handle this. I think it is a good start. Professor? If I may ask a question?”

“Please do.”

“The others…some of the children here…they keep trying to talk to me. Some were upset when I made it clear that I did not want company. I do not want this place to be like Durmstrang…I do not want to cause problems, but I do not want their company and they ask bothersome questions. What should I do?”

Harry paused. That wasn’t a conversation he’d predicted. He’d imagined some nebulous difficulty with Draco’s attitude eventually, but a blunt request for advice had thrown him off.

“Well…young people can be very fickle. They get emotional over things that might not seem important to you or me. Sometimes their feelings are hurt just by a simple rejection that wasn’t intended to harm. I might suggest just talking to them…even if it’s a bit uncomfortable for you. Or if someone’s feelings are already hurt, try apologizing to them and phrasing your desire to be alone in a less direct way. It might soothe things over.”

“I am to be responsible for others’ emotions? I didn’t want to be bothered by them in the first place. Why should someone be hurt by my wishing to study instead of chatter mindlessly?”

Draco’s faint irritation was amusing for Harry, though it was obviously more of a legitimate problem for Draco. Harry put his best foot forward, trying to remember the hundreds of spats between students he’d smoothed over during the last decade.

“I feel very much the same about it, and I think it speaks well of you that you’ve already seen the silliness of it all. That’s a sentiment usually only found in people of maturity, but there’s a bit more to it than that. You spent your years at Durmstrang with no close associates…am I right?”

Draco’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked faintly pink and stared at the table for a bit longer than Harry had expected. Something suggested that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with where this was going.

“I…no. You’re right. I spent my time with my studies.”

“Well, friends are a blessing, but they don’t happen by accident. My friends saved my life any number of times years ago. To have a friend, you have to share some of yourself, and you have to let them share some of themselves. People who try to get close to you don’t always mean ill, and the students are bound to be curious about someone new who studied in a foreign land. I’ll bet anything that they’re just sorting out whether they want you for a friend or not, and to do that, they start by talking to you about small things, just to see how you react. 

If you give them a chance, you might be able to find a few people in your classes that have a similar appreciation for academic endeavor. Just talk to them about the class work at first, or about Durmstrang if they’re curious. It might seem odd at first, but it won’t do you any harm. You can always decide later about whether they should share your feelings or private thoughts.”

Draco’s eyes held a hint of concern. He was mulling something over. “Some ‘friends’ aren’t worth making. How would I tell them apart? I don’t want to be burdened with endless requests for conversation from people I might later I decide are of no worth. It’s easier to just stick with my studies, and decide for myself who I wish to associate with.”

Harry sensed a bitterness that ran deeper than Draco was saying. “That’s a risk everyone takes. It’s the price for eventually finding the friends you keep. The only thing to remember is that ALL people are flawed. We all make mistakes. Me…Hermione…the Headmistress…you. Everyone is different. No one is perfect, and sometimes people do cruel or foolish things, like saying something hurtful, or ignoring someone that deserves better than that, before we realize what we’re doing. Try not to judge others too harshly for being human. It isn’t always easy. If I know anything at all, it’s from making mistakes and learning from them. I’ve just had a bit more time to sit back and think about them than you have. Be patient, or learn to be patient, and just maybe you’ll find some people here that make good company.”

Draco looked terribly serious, absorbing the words carefully, then pulled the stack of books on the desk to him.

“I will try. I am sorry I bothered you with something so small. May I be excused? I have a lot to study.”

“Very well, but don’t short change yourself. If you have a question, however small it might seem, feel free to ask it. I’ll see in you the usual classes, and after if you have any questions. You are excused.”

Harry paused a moment, thinking about what he’d said while Draco left the room. He’d meant it all, but it was an uncomfortable reminder of what he’d hidden from the people he called friends. Could he really look at the things he’d kept to himself and still say that he’d shown trust to Ron and Hermione and Neville? It was discomforting as hell.

Hermione had agreed to visit in a few days, and he’d agreed to keep her arrival time a secret so that Draco would be focused on his studies instead of her visit. Perhaps, after the initial meeting, just maybe he ought to talk to Hermione…about some things. Maybe not all…not yet…but a few. Just to test the waters for later. Hermione and Ron were very dear to Harry, and the idea of offending them or frightening them with the things he’d done…it was terrifying. It wasn’t hard to imagine outrage or shock…or even disgust. The idea of never setting foot into their home again was frightening enough, but John Prewett had driven home his point.

Harry needed to talk about the past. Badly. Young Draco was a walking reminder of it all, and the feelings that this evoked in Harry needed to be vented carefully and under appropriate circumstances. That would have to do.

He’d given Draco Malfoy some good advice, but would he be able to follow it himself?

 

TBC!!!


	10. Enter Hermione

The Echoes Of Yesterday…..by Samayel

Chapter 10: Enter Hermione

 

Hermione Granger-Weasley’s heels clacked on the old flagstones that paved the halls of Hogwarts. Her hair was braided back, but wisps still fell into her eyes as she hurried along her way. She’d taken the Floo in with Ron after breakfast, having made certain that her mother-in-law, Molly, was comfortable looking after the children. Honestly, no one was better than Molly at wrangling five children in an orderly fashion. She was strict, but the cookies and pies she baked usually made the children a bit more pliant. If their grandmother threatened to stay out of the kitchen, they behaved like angels to make sure that Molly’s treats wouldn’t be off the menu.

It was fortunate that Hermione was often able to work at home, since her professional life was largely constituted of research and the publishing of results. Ron had built her a superb study, with shelves that had been charmed to shift until the one she wanted was closest at hand. She often couldn’t work until the children were in bed, but she used the few hours each night well and wisely, and over the years her research had paid a nice dividend. Her name had traveled the wizarding world like wild fire after her first book, and while it wasn’t a best seller, academics knew her name around the globe.

Aside from speaking honorariums and royalties for her books, her two classes a month at Hogwarts brought a little extra money home. Not that she and Ron did poorly, but five children could create an inexhaustible list of necessities. A few hundred extra Galleons here and there certainly made a difference, but there was a limit to the amount of time either of them were willing to spend away from home. Money was all well and good, but it wasn’t of any real use if she couldn’t put the children to bed in person. It usually took the both of them more than hour to get them all bedded down, and even then there was the usual string of requests for glasses of water or stories or hugs and kisses and favorite toys. It was the nature of children to avoid bedtime with a desperation that bordered on psychosis, as if the world would fade away forever and no fun would be left to have tomorrow. Silly, infantile…but ultimately beautiful.

Harry had owled and Firecalled this week, instead of visiting, because the start of the school year was always his busiest time. Once things settled a bit he’d be over for dinner like usual, but right now it was quite normal for him to just write or chat a moment until he had more time. Ron had told her about Harry’s ‘collapse’, and Hermione hadn’t been fooled for an instant. Something felt ‘off’. She couldn’t pin it down until she saw him properly, but the nagging suspicion that more was at play than a simple cold dogged her every step.

The letter had been oddly troubling. It all sounded routine enough…except for the name of the new student. Draco Malfoy. The name echoed through years of better times, and dragged with it memories of fear and sorrow. She’d known full well that Malfoy had sired an heir to his family name, but no one had hear a word about the boy in almost two decades. Educated at Durmstrang, supposedly brilliant, and according to Harry, just as troubled as he was gifted. Harry had seemed oddly fragile while they’d set an appointment by Firecall, and it was to Harry’s quarters that she was headed now. There were matters to discuss, and she had the feeling that the younger Malfoy was the least of them.

The rap at Harry’s door pulled him away from his lesson plans. It was seven o’ clock, and that meant Hermione had arrived. They’d decided to meet briefly before classes and even before the Great Hall opened for breakfast. Less traffic that way, and fewer potential interruptions. John Prewett had prodded Harry gently toward this decision, but his own words to Draco had been ringing in his ears, making this a necessity even without the pressing need to make changes in his life. Harry opened the door and welcomed Hermione in, while she placed her heavy bag on the floor and took a chair, accepting tea as soon as he had it ready.

“Missed you at our place the last few weeks, Harry. The little ones get restless when they haven’t seen Uncle Harry in a while. Same goes for Ronny and I, now that I think of it. How are you? Really…and none of that prattle about being fine and it was just a flu…we’ve known each other too long to play at all that.”

Harry sighed and took his own seat at the table. Hermione certainly deserved answers, and not the ones he’d been passing around lately.

“I really am…alright. Now. I suppose. Old John Prewett has been working with me. ’Mione…there are…things…I should have told you a long time ago. From the war…and after. You and Ron…you’re my family. There are things…so personal, that they’re even harder to say to people you love. I’ve sat on those things for a long time. I didn’t want people worrying over me. I just wanted to forget. I guess it worked well enough…until lately.

It comes to this. I’ve been drinking…too much…for a long time. To help me sleep at first, and then because I couldn’t stop after doing it so long. My liver needs a bit of fine tuning…compliments of John. It’s…about the war. Back at Grimmauld Place. You and Ron…you mean the world to me. I didn’t want anyone to know…what I did…then.”

It all came together. It always did for Hermione. Patterns and hints and things that mystified others came clear to her faster than they did for other people. She pieced the puzzle together fast enough. Harry got sick when young Malfoy came to Hogwarts. He’d been single as long as she’d known him. He’d never had quite the same smile since the end of the war, and he’d been downright grim after the death of Draco Malfoy. It had only taken a very small push for Hermione to put it all together. The name came out like a whisper.

“Draco.”

Harry nodded, teacup trembling in his hand, eyes faintly wet.

“Yeah. Draco. I never told anyone. We were together, quietly, from shortly after he arrived at Grimmauld Place until he left to get married…just after I’d recovered. I know how everyone felt about him. Hell…I felt the same way…at first. You can’t imagine…what he was really like. Ha! Moaning Myrtle…she called him ’sensitive’. No one would have believed it. She was right. Not even the same person…underneath. I’m probably the only person left alive that really knew him.”

“Harry…”

Hermione hadn’t the first idea what to say. She’d often wondered over the years whether Harry was gay. The absence of female company had hinted at it, and in kind, she’d hinted at being completely supportive of such things, hoping Harry would take the hint. He’d never said a word on the subject. Other ramifications were crowding her mind, while memories of that time and after came back to her.

Harry’s sudden departure from the Auror service, after investigating Malfoy’s death. The months of isolation at Grimmauld Place after the suspects had been found dead. The seemingly unrelated death of Theodore Nott. When Harry had moved to Hogwarts to teach, he’d closed up Grimmauld Place and never returned to it. So many little choices…all tied to this revelation.

“God…Harry…”

“Yeah. You’re figuring it out. It was me. I killed them. The two who killed him…and Nott. I killed them all. For Draco. The last time I saw him, we’d had a screaming row. He went off to find his future bride, and I never saw him again…until I saw his corpse. I went crazy, Hermione. I hunted them down and cornered them like animals. I _enjoyed_ taking their lives. I never wanted anything like that before. I just did my duty. But for them…I savored it. I murdered them, the way they murdered him. I never told anyone…until this week. It all came back. I’ve tried to forget…but it all came back…”

Hermione put a hand on Harry’s, pushing the teacup back to the table.

“Because of his son. He came here, and you couldn’t forget anymore, could you? Harry. I’m so sorry, love. How could you think we wouldn’t love you? We’d have helped…then…if you’d needed us. Harry…forgive me. I knew something was wrong, even then, but…you were always such a private person. We never wanted to intrude. It just seemed like…after you came here…you were happy again. We’ve only ever wanted you to be happy. Please know that.”

“I know. I think I knew it. Just…everything with him was always complicated. Nothing was ever easy. He was the one person in the world that no one would have wanted me to be with…and the things…I did…because of him. The Ministry erased most of it from the records, and I erased it with whiskey. I should have said all this a long time ago. After the incident…passing out like that…I told Prewett…and Minerva. And now you. I didn’t think I could handle this, but John’s been a big help. I’m alright. I’ll be alright.”

“You said you were this Draco’s mentor. If he’s anything like the first Draco then it can’t be all tea and roses. Tell me about him. If you can…”

Harry composed himself, gulping tea, grateful for the chance to talk about something else.

“Yeah. Draco. The younger. What can I say, love? The boy is brilliant. He looks a bit like his father. Not quite a match, but close. He’s got the kind of mind that reminds me of yours. Restless…and hungry…looking for answers. He didn’t get the kind of guidance he needed at Durmstrang, and as near as we can tell, he’s stand-offish, impatient, aware of his superior talent, and angry at a world that didn’t seem to appreciate it. He came here to study for a final year, at Hogwarts, and the Ministry wanted me to observe his progress and report to them through Minerva. Hermione…they think he has the makings of a Dark Lord, but I don’t believe it. He just seems bright and a little unsociable. I called you here to see about including him in your course on Theoretical Magicks. He seemed very excited about meeting you. Looks like he already read all your books too.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Eighteen and he read all my books already? My God…he must have quite a mind. I only have two students for the class on Theory. Both seventh year Ravenclaws. I’d be happy to meet him, since you think it’s a good idea. I just can’t quite accept this notion of the Ministry’s. Are they serious? Just because he’s Draco’s son, it doesn’t mean he’s evil. Probably just bias against that name he’s been saddled with all his life.”

Harry smirked ironically, a glimmer of irritation evident. “They’re serious. He was a disciplinary problem for most of his years at Durmstrang. Did you know they still use corporal punishment there? Apparently he argued with his instructors so often that, in spite of grades that are impressive to say the least, he was probably beaten with a switch or a whip at least once a month for the last five years. The Ministry feels that because of his talent and his lack of interest in socializing with others, he might be a genuine candidate for future trouble. I won’t argue that the boy can be troublesome, believe me, I’ve already seen that side of him! But I can’t accept that he’s potentially a Dark Lord. I’d just like to see him get the education he wants, and if his time at Hogwarts could help him open up to others a bit and learn to socialize normally, I…I’d want that for him. You know why.”

Hermione smiled. Harry was an uncommon man. In every sense of the word. Of course he’d want a better life for young Draco. What Harry had done years ago…changed nothing. He was the godfather of Hermione’s children. A friend who had seen nearly every birthday, every new child, and listened to every small sorrow through the years. There was no malice in Hermione, not toward Draco Malfoy, and not toward his son and heir. Too many years had passed for her, and she’d let go of small grudges many years ago. 

“Yes…I do. That’s very ‘you‘, Harry. Even if it hurts, you wouldn’t sit still when someone needs help…even if they don’t know it. I’m glad you’re getting the help you need…and I’m glad you’re telling me all of this. You never should have kept it to yourself so long. Our home is your home, Harry. Ron will understand too. You’ll be talking to him about this soon?”

“Yeah. He deserves to hear it all as much as you do. John Prewett was after me to…to let this all out…share it with people that matter to me most, and I…I know he’s right. I’m done with secrets, Hermione. I've been tired for longer than you can imagine, and it’s time to have my life back.”

They chatted until the breakfast hour came, sipping strong tea and subtly brushing against the topic of Harry’s time with Draco years ago, and a friendship that had been solid through more than two decades suddenly seemed stronger than ever, when Harry had thought it couldn’t possibly be more steadfast than it already was.

 

TBC!!!


	11. Silence And Tears

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 11: Silence And Tears

 

Harry waited in his office quietly, sorting papers for his next classes tomorrow. By now, Hermione must have finished her appointed meeting with young Draco, and the lad would be on his way for a final meeting with Harry for the day. All that remained to be reviewed was his class schedule, adjusted for Hermione’s twice monthly lectures, and a brief overview on how Draco’s ’project’ was coming along.

Harry had already prepared a small side list of uncommon spells, often overlooked in general classes. It was likely that the boy knew at least a few of them, but they gave Harry a good starting point from which to begin actual spell instruction, and that was sufficient for now. Doubtlessly, Draco had begun to receive piles of homework assignments from his teachers, and in tandem with the rather mammoth preparations that Harry had assigned to Draco, it would be a little while before proper mentoring was required of him.

Draco had proven to be quiet and studious in the extreme since his assignments had been decided upon. Each day he sat near the front left corner of the class, writing furiously while reading from a textbook, and sometimes more than one was open on his desk. Harry had to admire the silent determination that had been shown by his erstwhile pupil. There was no question about the boy’s talent, and Harry hoped that the meeting with Hermione had gone well.

There was a soft rap at the edge of his open door. Draco stood at the entrance, his expression neutral, if a trifle wistful.

“Do come in and take a seat. I asked professor Granger-Weasley to send you here after you two had met, to see how this might impact on your schedule. I trust it went well? I had high expectations for you.”

Draco smirked rather genially. It was as much open cheer as Harry had seen on the young man’s face to date. He looked happy, and a trifle smug.

“Two Saturdays a month. First and third, at noon. It went very well, professor. I am glad that I could meet her, and her reputation is entirely deserved. Professor Granger-Weasley has a most formidable mind. Still…she wasn’t quite how I imagined her.”

“How so? I’m very glad to hear that the meeting went well, and I expect you’ll enjoy the challenge, but what did you expect?”

“Well, in truth, given her accomplishments, I expected an arch intellectual, both direct in every statement and utterly neutral in attitude. She was…she was…kind of motherly? It was disconcerting. She kept asking after my well-being. Is she always like that?”

Harry restrained a chuckle and settled for smiling. ”The formidable professor is also the mother of five children. She’s a very caring person once you get to know her. She’s been worrying over me since we were eleven. It’s a well intentioned concern, I assure you.”

“Did you really tell her that I remind you of her when she was a student here?”

Harry hadn’t realized that Hermione might share the compliment with Draco quite so openly, and it took him off his guard. “Well…yes, in some ways. Professor Granger-Weasley, her husband, and I went to this school together. She was always a superb student in every sense of the word. She sometimes neglected her social life in exchange for additional opportunities to learn, and while that worked out well enough for her, I still think you might make the most of your time here by letting yourself make some friends. She, her husband, and I have been friends for a very long time, and that’s as precious an accomplishment to me as the education I received here, if not quite a bit more so.”

“Her husband…you don’t mean the loutish ogre who yelled at me when you fell…ill…”

Draco’s voice trailed off nervously when he noticed the stern look on Harry’s face.

“We’ve already discussed how the staff here should be addressed, Mister Malfoy. You are not a part of the house system, and points cannot be deducted for offenses. It would, however, be an inordinate waste of your time and talent to spend each evening polishing the brass in the trophy hall. Rest assured, this will happen if you speak with undue crudity regarding the staff or students here. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir! Understood! My apologies…I did not mean to offend. It’s just…I don’t…I don’t like the way he looks at me. I never did anything to him. Why does he stare himself cross-eyed at me when I’m at meals or when I pass him in the hall? Is it because of my father?”

Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck rise with apprehension. This was not a subject he was comfortable with, even with potions that greatly reduced his anxiety. So Ron still carried those old grudges…even if he wasn’t acting on them. It had to be addressed, even if it was necessary to keep it short and to the point. Harry’s own inclination toward honesty took hold, and he composed himself quietly before answering.

“I expect so, but I wouldn’t worry over it. Professor Ron Weasley is a very fair man. You aren’t in any of his classes, but even if you were, he wouldn’t do anything inappropriate, irregardless of how he might feel about your father. If you speak to him…respectfully…you might find that he’s a very dedicated instructor as well as a very honest man. Do remember that Hermione Granger-Weasley married him, and she is no one’s fool.”

Draco looked mollified, but uncomfortable. The furrow of his brows hinted at his shifting mood, and his hesitance to open the subject further. It appeared that neither of them were entirely comfortable with speaking of Draco’s parents, but if the boy wanted answers, he had little choice but to push forward.

“I have…gotten the impression that…my father was not, to put it in as politic a way as I can, well-liked here. You don’t seem to share the petty prejudices that others might indulge themselves in. I assume that this is why your reputation for wisdom is well-deserved. May I ask what you thought of my father? You did know him while he was in school here, didn’t you?”

Potions be damned, the question left Harry choked for a moment. Some things couldn’t be made right by spells or potions. Draco deserved an answer of some kind, and Harry silently scrambled for words.

“It would depend on who you asked. Your grandparents, the Malfoys, were killed in the war, serving Voldemort. That event cast a shadow over the family reputation…which your own father struggled to overcome. There were circumstances…things that made some of his choices…questionable…and some…disastrous. I would rather not talk about those times, to be honest, but I can tell you this: your father was not at all what people might have thought of him. He was a better man than many, and he was not a servant of any Dark power. He fought for his family’s freedom from Voldemort at great cost, and at considerable risk to himself, in the only ways that he knew to use. In my own opinion, he was very much a hero in his own right, even though his parents were ultimately killed by Voldemort‘s own hand. I know that this isn’t much comfort…but it is true, and it doesn’t matter what people do or don’t believe…what matters is that his intentions were good, and I can swear to that. Who told you about your father…if I may ask?”

Draco was pensive, but nearly as rapt and attentive as he was during certain lectures. He spoke quietly, eyes boring into Harry’s skull. “My mother’s parents. They said…they said he was Marked. They said he was evil…and other things. Was it true?”

What could be said? It could be couched in gentler terms, but part of it was still true. Draco, ‘the first’, had been Marked by Voldemort, and had carried the stain of it upon his arm until the day he died.

“Yes. Part of it is true. All I can say is that, had it been his choice, he wouldn’t have done it. He was Marked when he was sixteen. His father offered his own son’s service to Voldemort…as an apology for his failure at a task that had been set for him. Your father never would have taken that Mark of his own accord. I promise you that. He was Marked…but he was never…never evil. Anyone who could say so…never really knew him. He was overwhelmingly protective of his family, and for that reason alone, he let himself be Marked. I’m sorry that you were ever led to think such things.”

Draco looked relieved, albeit not as much as Harry had hoped. The boy still looked restless and irritable, but answered calmly.

“Thank you, professor. I’d…I think I’d rather not speak of this anymore. You were very kind to share what you have. I…I have a lot to study…I should probably return to my room and call the house-elves for some supper. May I be excused?”

Harry nodded quietly. “Yes. Do just that. I’ll see you in class again soon enough. Alright?”

Draco nodded and rose from his seat, picking up the books he’d laid aside. As he walked to the door, he paused, turning back to Harry once again.

“Professor?”

“Yes?”

“With all due respect, there was something else I was curious about.”

“And that would be?”

“In your quarters, just arrived I arrived here, there was a book. Muggle poetry. I didn’t read it all, but when I glanced at it, it struck me oddly. I recall it went something like:

“When we two parted  
In silence and tears,  
Half broken-hearted  
To sever for years,  
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,  
Colder thy kiss;  
Truly that hour foretold  
Sorrow to this:

The dew of the morning  
Sunk chill on my brow-  
It felt like the warning  
Of what I feel now.  
Thy vows are all broken,  
And light is thy fame;  
I hear thy name spoken,  
And share in its shame.

“I didn’t finish the rest…but I thought it…beautiful…in its way.”

Harry felt his throat constrict. The rest was well know to him, and came up from his lips like an answering code to some archaic riddle. It was uncanny that the boy had remembered so much from a single glance, and a shame that it had been something so very private.

“They name thee before me,  
A knell to mine ear;  
A shudder come o’er me-  
Why wert thou so dear?  
They know not I knew thee,  
Who knew thee too well:-  
Long, long shall I rue thee,  
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-  
In silence I grieve,  
That thy heart could forget,  
Thy spirit deceive.  
If I should meet thee  
After long years,  
How should I greet thee?  
With silence and tears.

“That, Mister Malfoy, was ‘When We Two Parted’, by the Muggle poet Lord Byron. I’m very fond of that book. It is some comfort to those of us who lost people dear to us during the war. If you should like to read the book itself, please ask. You may borrow it…if you wish, but I ask that you handle it with care. Is that all?”

Harry kept his eyes upon his paperwork, his voice carefully controlled. Draco nodded, suddenly uncomfortable with the tension that had very quickly filled the room, suddenly making the atmosphere almost stiflingly close.

“Thank you, sir. I can’t read it just yet, but when I have the leisure, I would like to do just that. I’ve never read any Muggle poetry before…until I read that. I liked it. Good night, professor.”

“Good night, Mister Malfoy.”

Harry spelled the door shut quietly after Draco had gone. He’d done admirably well. By keeping his hand on the side of the desk, he had managed to keep the trembling under control and out of sight. Lord Byron’s words echoed bitterly through centuries, as true for any who had felt such things as they had been to Lord Byron himself. One could only guess at who the poem was inspired by, but for Harry, the meaning was painfully clear. A poem for lovers parted, with cruel words between them at the last, never to meet again as friends in this life.

The parchments on his desk caught small droplets, faintly smearing ink where they struck. Harry wept quietly, one hand across his face, slumped across his desk. If…if it was to be like this…what potion could ever be enough?

TBC!!!


	12. Ron Gets An Earful

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 12: Ron Gets An Earful

What a perfect storm of a week it had been so far. Despite John Prewett’s best efforts, Harry still woke to vague memories of his Draco, as he looked twenty years ago, calling out Harry’s name in the mist of dreams. With whiskey out of the mix, Harry had been vaguely tense, but at least the potions did away with the unpleasantness of withdrawal. His sleep was sound enough, but each morning, as the potion faded, flickering memories and wishes took over, fickle and cruel, making Harry’s mornings a time he dreaded.

He’d invited Ron over early this morning, expecting shock and surprise when he announced the parts of his past he’d long concealed. Instead, Ron had calmly sipped his tea, nodded his head, and answered Harry soberly.

“’Bout time, mate. I wondered if you’d ever come clean about it.”

Harry’s reaction had been less than calm. “What!? You knew? Are you kidding me? I kept this to myself for twenty years…and you knew?”

“What?” Ron shrugged. “We’ve been best mates since we were eleven. You stood up as the best man at my wedding. You think I was blind? I knew you and Malfoy played about on the side years ago. You were keeping mum about it, so I kept mum. I figured the wee shit would wind up going his own way eventually…and he did. I hated the bastard for hurting you that way, but you didn’t say a word and got on with your life, so I kept it shut. No one needed to know your private business, and they’d have needed more than Veritaserum to make me say anything that would hurt you. If it hadn’t been for you, Hermione and I would be dead in the basement of Riddle Manor, not married with five kids. Just glad you’re getting this off your chest, mate. No one should carry all that around alone. I just figured it was up to you to decide if and when you were ready.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Oy! Don’t act all surprised on me, Harry. I’ve only been kicking your arse at chess for what…two decades plus? I’m not all that thick. I figured there might be a chat like this coming after the Malfoy brat showed up. You looked like you’d seen a ghost, mate. You seem like you‘re holding up alright now though. The only reason I didn‘t tell Hermione years ago is because she‘d have been breathing down your neck with questions a minute later.”

Harry gathered his shattered train of thought at the mention of Draco as a brat. Having gotten to know the lad at least a little, Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to think of the boy in derogatory terms anymore. 

“Okay, okay…I’m fine…or better anyway. But about young Malfoy…he’s…he’s alright. Not really all that much like his father…except for the sharp tongue…and he’s working on that. Give him a break, Ron. Let him prove himself one way or the other, but at least find out who he is before you dismiss him entirely as a clone of his grandfather. I can tell you think I was daft for being with his father at all, back then, but what you can’t know is what Draco was really like, under the surface.”

“I don’t have to, mate. ON the surface, he cracked the wards and let a pack of bloody handed psychopaths into the school. If it hadn’t been for the potion you left behind, a lot of people would have been killed. You’re the one who saved the day on that one. That portrait in the office, Dumbledore’s, that’s a tribute to Malfoy ingenuity. One dead headmaster. Not to mention the scars on Bill’s face. Good thing Fleur thinks it makes him look like a fierce war hero, or he’d resent it a lot more than he does. He’s been milking those scars for sex for two decades! That’s why they have nine kids! Point is, I haven‘t forgotten anything…but you might have.”

“No. No. Don’t even go there. I forgot nothing, but I know things you couldn’t have guessed at, and I admit I never shared them. Not until now! Draco deserves this being said aloud. The only thing he ever cared about was keeping his parents alive. Voldemort made a sick prank out of keeping his parents hostage for Lucius’ fuck ups. Draco got Marked and handed a suicide mission because Voldemort expected to kill his parents anyway. As much of a shit as Lucius was, Draco tried to save them. All he ever wanted was to have his family back, and he sacrificed his life and his reputation to get them. He wound up watching them die anyway. That’s why he came to our side. He never asked for forgiveness, because even he didn’t think he deserved it. He just came, did what was asked of him by the Order, and waited for the world to end.

I got him off the hook with the Ministry. Not because we were fucking, but because there was nothing they could do to him that was worse than what he’d been through. He left me because he was still obsessed with fulfilling his duty to his family, and the only way to do that was to give up me and find a wife from a pureblood family that would still marry a Malfoy. I knew him like no one else ever did! What he thought, what he felt, what he believed. You never, never knew him like I did. He was almost suicidal with guilt when he got to Grimmauld Place! He couldn’t sleep for the first week he was there. He woke up crying every night. I got Tonks to smuggle me in a nightlight without telling anyone, because he wasn’t allowed a wand and he was scared of the dark! Believe me when I fucking tell you that you never knew the person I was in love with!”

Ron was stifling outrage, purpling and biting his lip while he waited for Harry to stop.

“Love? We were barely old enough to shave! You shagged him…fine…you liked him…fine…but don’t call it love! He wasn’t capable of love! Don’t even dishonor what other people have by comparing him to it. Love is sticking with someone through war, five kids, three jobs and nearly twenty years! You fucking Malfoy’s lily-white arse wasn’t love, or he’d still be with you! You’ve carried a torch for him so long you’re delusional! And let’s not confuse the issue…I’ve nothing against you left-footing it! I’ve wished for years that you’d take up with someone decent and have a good life together, and I don’t give a good damn if they’re a bloke or not, but Malfoy was bad news from day one, and so is his sneaky little spawn!”

Harry’s dander was finally up, and he rose, clutching the table for support, largely to keep his hands from going for his wand. He leaned carefully over the table and stared penetratingly into Ron’s eyes.

“How…fucking…dare…you. Don’t you ever…ever fucking dictate to me what love is or isn’t. Here’s a tidbit they never told you from the hospital, after Voldemort nearly fucking did me in, topping himself off in the process! The only reason I lived…the only reason you can disrespect me to my face instead of laying flowers on my grave…is because all I thought of when that spell hit was Draco. I loved him. Absolutely. Completely. Voldemort’s spell rebounded because all I had in my heart was love. My love for him won the war, and no one…no one ever knew. You…all of you…owe your lives to Draco Malfoy. Whatever you think of him, don’t ever imply that what I felt wasn’t real, because I know it like no one else alive today ever could. Love is why I’m alive. Maybe it didn’t work, maybe it wasn’t enough, and I’ll never be able to do more than guess at Draco’s motivations for leaving, but I know what we had was good, and right, and fucking decent. You can have your opinion…but you can keep it to your bloody self, and you‘ll still be wrong!”

Both men were flaring nostrils, red-faced, and pinched with anger. Silence hung over them while Ron chewed his lip, sneering and grinding his teeth. Then Ron took a deep breath, exhaling loudly, and spoke with determined calm.

“Alright. I accept…that what you felt was real. You’re right. I didn’t know that bit. You never told us. We figured the curse rebounded because of your mum again. Boy Who Lived and all that. How’d you find all that out, anyway?”

Harry slipped back down into his seat, not quite mollified and still bristling with fury.

“While I was out, they ran tests, spells for memory and consciousness, trying to figure out if I’d ever wake up. They found the memories of those last seconds. What was in my heart…what was in my mind when the curse hit me. They told me after I woke up. It was too personal…then. Even more so after Draco left me. He wanted me to see him on the side from his wife, like a dirty little secret we’d keep to ourselves. I couldn’t believe it. That he’d even ask that of me. They told me he used to sneak into the hospital ward to be with me while I was out of it and still healing. Every night. He left at dawn so others wouldn’t find him there. After all that, he still had the nerve to ask me if I’d accept sneaking around on the side. I went ballistic, Ron. I think I chased him off. That’s when he left. With me cursing him up one side and down the other. That’s why he left. That was the last I saw of him until he…until he died.”

Ron let out a long puff of breath again. “Fuck all. I’ve hated him for years, Harry. I can forgive a lot, but the way he walked off on you and never looked back was the last straw. Not Bill…not Dumbledore…you. I’ve only ever had one best mate, and he punched a lorry sized hole in your heart. Forgive me if I can’t just let that go. I remember when he passed on. I wasn’t exactly dancing in the streets, but I really thought you’d get on with your life, and I can tell you honestly that I wasn‘t a bit sorry for him. Sorry for the lass that married him though. Now their kid is a thorn in all our sides. I don’t like the look of him, Harry. Something about the eyes…like he’s hiding something…always thinking. I don’t like it one bit. We’ve got another dragon by the tail with that one, no mistake, and you can quote me on it later when things hit the fan.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Until then, I’m asking this of you, as a teacher, and as a mate. Give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Not for Draco, not for me, but for him. He’s his own person, and he deserves the same chance Dumbledore would have given any of us. Try being decent to him and see how that works, or if you can’t do anything else, at least try to keep that look off your face when you see him. You make me think of Snape and me twenty years ago. It isn’t right and you know it.”

Ron threw up his hands. “Fine! Alright! I’ll pretend he’s the salt of the earth until he proves otherwise. Good enough? I may not believe it, but I can fake it if I have to.”

“Good enough. There are other things to talk about, and I hope you can be fair while you listen, mate…because there isn’t much of it that’s pretty.”

“Shite! It gets worse than what we covered so far? What…did ya blow the whole of Slytherin in a chorus girl outfit, humming old show tunes all the while?”

“No, god damn it!”

“Just kidding, mate! I was trying to lighten the mood a little! Easy there. Go on then. Might as well have it all…in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.”

Harry rubbed his temples slowly. This was a bit rougher than things had been with Hermione, primarily because Ron really was his best mate. Over twenty-five years of joking around and backing each other up when needed still hadn’t prepared them for a conversation like this one. Hell…what could?

“I’ll just bloody say it then. When Draco died, I slipped off my trolley. Not a little, Ron…a lot. I hunted and killed the people that murdered him, along with Theo Nott, who gave the bastards Draco’s location. They covered it up and threw me off the Auror force, and I took up drinking heavily about then. I’ve…I had it under control…mostly…except at nights, but Prewett tells me my liver was on its last legs. He’s brewing cures for it. It’ll take a few months, but they can fix it. That’s why I’m telling you all this. You and Hermione. Already spoke to her. No one else needs to know this stuff. Prewett said I needed to get this out of my system, and to do that, I need to talk about it, tell the truth, and tell it to the people that deserve to hear it. That’s what’s been going on. The last thing I need is extra stress over a student whose father I fucking killed for. For the love of Merlin…just go easy on me, by going easier on him. I just want to get through this year with my sanity intact, alright?”

Ron was dumbstruck, and fiddled with his tea while trying to get his voice back. It came hushed and low, while Ron pulled his hand across his chin, collecting himself.

“Jaysus. That was you. I remember hearing about those deaths. I should have guessed it. I dismissed them completely. Couple a dead Death Eaters, right? No loss. I didn’t know that was you. At least the Ministry did right by you…for once. Shite. You’ve got my word, mate. We’ll give the kid a chance, Malfoy or no. Whatever makes this easier for you is good by me. Just keep your eyes open and your wand handy. That’s all I ask.”

“Thank you.” Harry let a sigh of relief slip out, sipping his cooling tea at last. “That’s more than enough, mate. More than enough.”

 

TBC!!!


	13. Perchance to Dream

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 13: Perchance to Dream

‘Harry…I miss you. I only loved you…Harry.’

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, gasping for breath. He wasn’t afraid, but only apprehensive. He fumbled for his glasses at the small table beside the bed, knocking over the near empty glass of water that lay beside them in the process.

“Damn! Damn it! Damn it to hell!”

There was no one to hear him curse, while he blinked and checked the time. Quarter to six in the morning. Still very early. His dreams had roused him again. Whiskey had become a thing of the past. He didn’t even keep any of the leftovers. He’d handed the last of it off to Ron, and thanks to Prewett’s potions, he hadn’t felt the withdrawal at all. But he was dreaming. Of Draco. Every night. Vividly.

It was just as well that he had another appointment with Prewett tonight. The way the last few days had gone, there was a lot to talk about, in spite of his earlier reticence. Whether he liked it or not, talking had helped a bit, a Harry felt less pressured than before, but apparently even old John’s potion making skills couldn’t calm Harry’s dreams. Waking to memories of Draco, as he looked years ago, was actually more stressful than dealing with Draco’s son. 

If there was one upside to things, it was that, tired and distraught as he might sometimes be, Harry had been up early every single morning, and could usually compose himself fairly well with the extra time this afforded him. Classes were becoming more complex, as they inevitably did once the start of the year was out of the way, and that meant more time spent preparing each course of study.

Harry always looked back to the lessons he’d had from Remus Lupin, and somewhat grudgingly, Severus Snape. While Lupin had been the first DADA instructor to display real competence to Harry, he’d also shown an uncanny knack for engaging students in their studies. To this day, Harry made a point of bring Boggarts and other creatures into classes for practice, especially with the middle years. As for Severus Snape, whatever Harry might have felt about the man’s horrifying attitude toward children, his uncompromising thoroughness had rubbed off, and Harry’s sixth and seventh year classes in DADA had long since learned to expect hours of dueling practice once the initial course had been laid out at the beginning of the year.

After fifteen years, Harry’s course material may have been fairly rote and predictable, but he kept notes on which students needed more work on any given spell, and these reminders to himself took a portion of each morning before class. After a decent shower and a hastily spelled shave, Harry took his tea to his study desk and started his morning’s work before breakfast, letting the needs of his students brush aside memories of yesteryear.

Eventually it came to make his way to breakfast, and Harry packed his bundle of notes and lesson plans and headed out the door, only to nearly run into Draco in the hallway.

“Oh! Ah…you’re up early. Didn’t mean to nearly run you over on the way to breakfast. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Malfoy?” The lad looked pensive, but basically calm.

“Yes, professor. I’d hoped to borrow that book. I finished a few of my projects last night, and I’ll have the last draft of your assignment finished by tonight. I thought I’d make time to read something different. You don’t mind? I’ll treat your things with the utmost respect…you have my word.”

“Well, I don’t doubt that you will. Certainly.”

Harry opened the door to his room and stepped in to grab the book from his desktop. When he turned around, Draco was already in the door, just a few feet away, peering about without any obvious interest, but the invasion of his personal space was disconcerting none the less. Not that anything all that offensive had been done, but it simply made Harry uncomfortable. Something had to be said. Harry handed over the book while he fumbled over what to say. Given that his mornings hadn’t been easy lately, he wasn’t really at his best.

“Mr. Malfoy…I am very happy to lend you a book, and particularly one as good as this, but I should say these are my private quarters. I didn’t extend my invitation to enter here, and I’d appreciate it if, in the future, you could wait by the door.”

Draco looked perturbed, and a little confused. “Why? No disrespect intended, but haven’t people come in here before?”

“Well, yes, but they’re people I’ve known-”

“You know me. I’m your student. You’re normally quite reasonable…what’s wrong with my talking to you here as opposed to anywhere else?”

Harry felt like he was losing control of the thread of conversation rather quickly, and fumbled again for a more definitive answer.

“Precisely! You are my student. It’s inappropriate for you to follow me into my quarters. There should be a certain professional distance maintained between students and instructors.”

“Who said anything about propriety? We aren’t doing anything wrong. Or do you…do you dislike me? Have I offended you?” There was something in Draco’s tone, edgy and nervous, faintly hurt, that Harry couldn’t ignore.

“NO! Nothing like that! Not at all. Would you at least accept that I’m a very private person? You didn’t visit the quarters of your instructors at Durmstrang, did you?”

“Well, no! But they were perfectly horrid! Why would I? You seemed decent enough. I wanted to talk to you. I had nothing to say to them. What’s wrong with you?! Why does it even matter?!”

Draco had obviously begun to lose his own temper, and Harry could feel his own fraying, but was too adamant to stop now. “Why means nothing! I’ve made it clear that I expect to give invitations before people enter my home! That is more than sufficient reason for you to respect my wishes. This conversation is finished. Talking is all well and good, but once I’ve made myself clear, I expect you to follow my instructions…to the letter…without complaint! Now go!”

The young man purpled quickly, clearly biting his tongue and holding back further comment at great personal effort, then placed the book on the table and turned to the door, choking out his last words.

“Yes…professor. As you wish.” Acid venom dripped from each word, the sarcasm as plain as day. Harry ignored the naked insolence, as well the faint hint of extra force when the door was closed.

Exasperating! That’s what it was. What on earth made such a simple request into a cause for dramatics? Things had gone quite well up until today. He’d expected some outburst of temper or misconduct at some point, but he’d hardly expected it to be over this! Inexplicable!

\---------------------------------------------------------------

Breakfast itself was easy enough, since Draco merely tucked into his meal with his face firmly fixed in the direction of his plate. The rest of the day was the same, with Draco sullenly keeping to himself, and Harry scarcely had time to gnaw over the matter until quite late. Draco had fled their last class together so quickly that Harry hadn’t gotten a word in. Perhaps it was just as well, since the moody nature of adolescents often required time to cool off after things like this. Besides, Harry had an appointment with John Prewett to keep, and he really needed his mind on that at the moment.

When Harry arrived at Prewett’s office, just a couple of hours before dinner was to be served, he found John Prewett in good spirits and cheerily treating two young men with faint scrapes and bruises. 

“You’ve already gotten your points and your detentions, so I’ll leave off the long lectures today. You’ve thick heads, the both of you, and after all that effort, all you’ve got to show for yourselves is some bruises. Nothing but a couple of bruises left, and you can keep those and think about them. I won’t waste my time healing anything you’ve inflicted on each other that isn’t serious. Now, go on. And behave like young men, not brawling louts! Shoo! Off with you!”

The pair of fourth years slouched away, headed out the door and glaring daggers at each other while Harry made himself comfortable. John Prewett put away everything but his wand before leading Harry into his private room.

“Don’t be fooled by that strict tone, Harry. I tell you, it was all I could to not laugh my way through the entire thing. Makes me remember being that age myself, many a year though it’s been. The two twits actually got into a shoving match over ingredients in Potions class, and wound up dumping a shelf onto themselves. Professor Grimes was beside himself at the mess. He’s usually quite the softie, but those two will be cleaning up the Potions classroom for the rest of the week. Without magic. Couldn’t help but think of my third year here. As I recall, it was over the favors of a certain lovely Ravenclaw. Another fellow had asked her out, because he knew I was about to do the same. Prewetts aren’t much better in the temper department than Weasleys are, and quite predictably, I was polishing trophies for almost a week.”

Harry relaxed in the comfortable chair in the corner, taking the glass of water that John handed him while the older gentleman moved to take his own chair. It was always a pleasure to hear John’s stories, and the man possessed an aura of unflappable calm that soothed those around him.

“So? Whatever happened to the girl? Did she agree to a date with you…or with him?”

“Seventeenth of next month. We’ll have been married fifty years. Heh. I’d no idea then what I was fighting for, but if I had, I’d have fought twice as hard! She’s a jewel, my Marie. But enough about me. This is your time, Harry. Let’s hear what’s been on your mind. Last time you’d said you’d try to talk with a few old friends and open up a bit. Any luck on that?”

“Aye…enough. I suppose. Hermione took it well enough, and Ron hates all things Malfoy and that won’t change anytime soon, but I think I got him to give young Draco a fair shake. That aside, I’ve two things we really need to talk about, and the first is my dreams. The other potions worked fine…but the one that’s supposed to give me something like Dreamless Sleep without side effects…complete failure. Every night this week, I’ve come awake after dreaming about Draco. My Draco, as he was then. Whispering things to me. Or just saying them from far away so it’s hard to hear. If it wasn’t for the Calming Draughts I’d be a nervous wreck, but those have worked fine. Even so…it’s hard to keep off the drink when I can’t look forward to sleep, and the notion of waking up with those memories fresh in my head isn’t working for me either. Is there anything else you can do?”

John Prewett rubbed his chin carefully, looking concerned. “That’s a bit off. I haven’t had that potion let me down before. I’ll check the batch I mixed up and see if it lost some of its potency. It’s usually very efficacious in cases like these, where Dreamless Sleep is too strong and can’t be used long term. I wonder if there’s a more pressing reason for your dreams than I’d expected. Hmmph. Anyhow…we’ll see. I might be able to mix it a bit stronger for you, but this potion doesn’t leave much room for error or for variations of strength. I’ll do my best…I can promise that. So what else is on your mind?”

Harry sighed. “The other Draco. He barged into my quarters when I went to lend him a book this morning. He hasn’t any sense of boundaries or personal space. At least not when it comes to me. All I asked was for him to respect my privacy, and it all went pear-shaped from there! He was completely out of line, barking out questions as if he had right to intrude into my personal quarters. Before I knew it, I was on the defensive again and I ordered him out of the room. He was furious, and stormed off without even taking the book he’d come to borrow. It’s been annoying me all day. I deal very well with students, but he doesn’t seem to grasp the dynamics of student and teacher very well. Any ideas on how to deal with this?”

John Prewett ran Harry back and forth through what he remembered of the row that morning, picking apart exact words. Harry quickly became exasperated again, answering questions edgily, already tired of the subject.

“Relax, Harry. You’ve obviously let this work you into a state. I’m sure it’s the disruption of your sleep making you this edgy over small things.”

“Well…bugger! I’d like something to be uncomplicated for once! I go along with everything…the potions, these meetings, taking Draco as a pupil…all of it. What has it gotten me so far? More complications. Tense bloody conversations with my friends. I’m tired and I dread sleeping and waking up, and frankly, even with the potions, I want a bloody nightcap and a decent night’s sleep. Is there anything you can tell me that doesn’t involve questions instead of answers?”

John smirked. “Alright, lad. It’s just a thought, but has it occurred to you that perhaps Draco thinks of you as a friend? He obviously admired you enough to sign up for an extra year of schooling just to work with you. You’d said before that the two of you had got on quite a bit better than expected. Last time we met, I recall you bringing up his having trouble socializing, and you’d tried to get him to open up a bit and spend more time getting to know people. I expect he got worked up because he suddenly felt unwelcome…rejected.”

Harry was aghast. “You must be kidding me! I told him to make some friends his own age. Why on earth would he be following me around instead? He’s a student, I’m a professor. I’ll be the first to admit that he could benefit from making friends, but he needs friends his own age. The entire concept of instruction is based on a certain amount distance between student and teacher…because unbiased assessment of learning is impossible otherwise. How could he expect anything other than that?”

“Harry, Harry, Harry. He’s eighteen, uncommonly gifted, and socially awkward for his age. All this according to you yourself. He seems to interact better with adults…once a few boundaries are established. The impression that you didn’t want him around except for required class work probably just rubbed him the wrong way. Obviously he overreacted, but I’m assuming he hasn’t much experience with social dynamics. Just pull him aside, and for the sake of dealing with someone half your age, try swallowing your pride and being the better man. Tell him you overreacted just as he did, and that you really are a very private person. At least assure him that you approve of him as a student and a person. Set a clearer boundary, calmly, and see if he can accept that. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Harry exhaled loudly. “Bloody hell. How could I have missed that? I’m usually good at these kinds of things. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years…I ought to know bet-”

“Nonsense. You’re tired, a little distraught, and the youngster in question is who he is. You‘ve got your reasons for missing the signs I picked up. Besides, I’ve counseled professionally now and again over the years. I’d see about having the lad drop by here myself, but I doubt he’d say anything productive if he felt as though people were deliberately prodding about for personal information. He already has a certain rapport with you. Get back to work and do your best, and I’ll get started on checking my potions, alright?”

Harry rubbed his scalp, easing tensed muscles. “Alright. I can do this. Bloody nuisance is what it is, but I can do it.” Why couldn’t anything be easy these days?

TBC!!!


	14. Legacy

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 14: Legacy

 

‘This is something I can do. Come on, Harry! Prewett was probably right. You lost your temper and made it all sound worse than it was. You have to work with this boy every day…just get this over with and set the kid at ease. For the love of Merlin…you fought Voldemort toe to toe…so how hard can this be?’

Harry had finished outlining his expectations for the next week, prepping his seventh year class for the start of dueling practice, along with lists of spells he expected them to practice in advance. The hour was up, and Harry announced the dismissal of class, hastily adding a request before it could be ignored.

“Class is dismissed with the exception of Mr. Malfoy…who will see me in my office… now.”

Harry turned and opened the door to his office, watching as Draco rather sluggishly rose and ambled in, looking un-amused but calmer than he had been the day before. At least he wasn’t as actively insolent, but Harry was familiar with every form of teenaged slouch and sneer. He’d seen them all, and it was obvious that while Draco was covering it a bit, he was still irritable.

“Take a seat.”

“Where would you like me to take it?”

“Don’t even start that with me…we need to talk.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Start what? I just want to make sure I follow the orders I’m given to the letter.”

Harry ground his teeth a moment, then resigned himself to doing this the hard way.

“Alright. As you wish. Your orders, to be specific, are to sit down in the chair across from my desk, opposite me, and remain silent and still until I tell you to move or speak.”

There was no mistaking Harry’s tone. He let his eyes do some of his work for him, using ’the stare’ that had served him well with countless recalcitrant students in the past. To his credit, Draco looked nervous instead of just smug, but as long as he took his seat and remained quiet, Harry didn’t really care how he looked. Harry took his own seat and composed himself. He’d had several moments free today to work out what he wanted to say. He just hoped that it was worth the effort.

“With regard to yesterday, I have this to say. Mr. Malfoy…I overreacted, and I clearly upset you. I apologize. That was not my intent.”

“But…”

“DID you forget the part about silence!? I will invite answers when I am finished!”

Draco looked like he was about to say something more, but thought better of it and remained silent, slumping back into the chair.

“Right, then. As I was saying! I am going to explain several things to you, and then I will invite you to answer. If you can’t manage that, you will wish that you had. I overreacted yesterday, because you met me off my guard, not unlike another incident I recall quite recently, after entering my private quarters without my invitation.

Allow me to be frank. You are a wholly exceptional student. I am very glad that you chose to come to Hogwarts, and I am flattered that you felt so strongly about choosing me as a mentor. I hold your abilities in the highest regard, because I have never had a pupil so extravagantly gifted in these arts, or so diligent in the pursuit of knowledge. I am genuinely looking forward to working with you, and I have every expectation that you will surprise me and impress me along the way.

That having been said, you lack an understanding of the differences between other people’s feelings and your own. For instance, I, for reasons of my own, am a very private person. I strongly prefer to invite people into my home, and in point of fact, most people feel very uncomfortable when someone they don’t know well steps into their living quarters without invitation. I understand, upon reflection, that you have lived in dorms until you arrived in England, and that you may not realize that privacy is valued by others. I assure you…it is.

I lost my temper, and what I said was unkindly. You have my apologies. I hope you’ll at least trust me that they are sincere. What I expect from you is this: whether you accept my apology or not, you should ask my permission to enter my quarters when that circumstance arrives. If I say no, you will be expected to conduct yourself like an adult, and accept that choice. If I say yes, then you may come in and feel welcome. Depending on the circumstance, I may say yes, or no, for any number of reasons, and because we’re speaking of my living quarters, those reasons don’t need to be explained to anyone else. That choice is mine to make. You may speak now, but try to be civil if you can. It reduces people’s respect for you when you fall back upon insults and sarcasm in lieu of actual communication. I should know…because I lapse occasionally myself. Alright?”

Draco sat in silence, looking pensive and curious. The silence lingered until Draco reached into his book and withdrew a parchment, pushing it across the desk to Harry.

“Apology accepted. This is the assignment you gave me. I finished it last night. I…I didn’t know you were…so adamant about your privacy. I’m sorry I offended you. I just…sometimes…it’s like you…you don’t want me here. I can feel it. I believe you…when you say you think highly of my abilities, but…no offense…I don’t believe it when you say I’m welcome. I don’t feel that way. You’re always on edge, like you’re in the room with something grotesque, only I’m the only other person in the room. What should I think?”

Draco’s voice was quiet and serious, no trace left of sarcasm, but there was a faint note of bitterness, both in his tone, and in the set of his mouth while he waited for a reply. Harry put aside the parchment for a moment, and hung his head low while he thought of what to say. Honesty was a two edged sword, and the edge that cut deepest was evident now. 

“Hell. This is my fault. You aren’t wrong. I am uncomfortable. I’m sorry, but…there are reasons…I can’t…it isn’t you, alright? It’s-”

Draco’s voice was almost a whisper when he interrupted. “It’s about my father…isn’t it? It’s always about that. I’ve been paying for that my whole life. I know what he did…here. Some of it. I thought you said you were his friend. Was what he did so bad that…even you…wish I’d just leave?”

“No. That’s not it. That’s not it at all. There are things that…they’re history now. They shouldn’t matter, but…it’s hard to explain this.” Harry rubbed his temples, teeth gritted while he tried to maintain his composure. 

“When someone…a friend…dies…a part of you dies with them. And a part of them lives with you. You…Draco…even your name…you’re a living reminder of someone who can’t be with us anymore, even if we wish he could. It isn’t your fault. Don’t…don’t think you’ve done something wrong. You really haven’t. The problem is mine and mine alone. I suppose…I’m glad you’re here, even if there are…reminders…of your father. I knew him very well, and I can promise you this: he would have been terribly proud of you. More so than I could possibly describe. Let me assure you…whatever else I may feel…however uncomfortable I may be, I’m glad that I’m to be part of your education, and it would be a disservice to your father’s memory to do any less than my best.”

Draco remained quiet, glancing toward the window, clearly as uncomfortable as Harry.

“I can…I can understand that. I think. That’s been my whole life. No one ever really sees me. They see my mother or my father. They haven’t been here for any of this, but I’ve still been in their shadow my entire life. I’ll never understand why I have to pay for it, though. It isn’t fair. I should have had parents! It should have been different!”

Draco was losing his grip quickly, looking a bit wild about the eyes while his voice began to rise.

“…not my fault! I don’t-”

His voice trailed off suddenly, and the muscles of his face betrayed what he was struggling with while he composed himself.

“I don’t…want to…talk about this…anymore. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s…review my work. Student…teacher, right?”

Harry had floundered while Draco broke down, unsure of what to say, uncertain of what would help and what might do more harm than good. He snatched the parchment back eagerly, happy to accept the break in the tension, which was still so thick in the room that it nearly seemed to choke out actual air.

“Right. Let’s see. Wait! This is it? One sheet? There are less than thirty spells on here!”

Draco turned crimson almost instantly, sitting up with his mouth pinched into a tight little line while he growled out an answer.

“Are you implying that I prepared this in bad faith?! You asked for a list of spells that I don’t know or haven’t used, cross-referenced and complete with descriptions. I read each of the books. These are the spells that met your criteria! Are you accusing me-”

“NO! Stop right there! I trust you, alright! I was just stunned for a minute! Relax. It’s just…that was almost eight hundred separate spells you went through. This list is only twenty seven spells. That’s bloody amazing! I accuse you of nothing…I’m just saying I’m impressed. More than I thought I’d be. Did you have access to those texts at Durmstrang?”

Draco huffed, his color shifting back to red, and then finally to a faintly flushed pink. “Yes. Our library was smaller, and strictly controlled, and we used different texts, but the books you gave me were available there. Except the seventh year one. It was restricted on principal, and most of the spells I didn’t know were from that. There were a few others I should see used before I practice them…from the sixth year text, but that was all.”

“Well…I guess I’ve got some work to do. You can join the seventh year class in dueling practice, and we’ll work on some of these at first. I see I’ll have to break out some of my old Auror texts if I’m going to show you much of anything new this year. Consider yourself complimented.”

Draco grudgingly smirked, still too upset to easily calm. “Alright. I stand, or rather sit, complimented. I’ve never studied Auror’s spells. That should be interesting.”

“I thought you’d like that. I just hadn’t imagined starting on them quite that soon. We should have what’s on this sheet out of the way in a few weeks time. Possibly less, if I’m an accurate judge of your speed of mastery.”

Draco seemed only slightly less tense, eager to change the subject to one he was comfortable with. His own skill was a familiar thing to him, but often a surprise to others. At least Harry accepted that he wasn’t cheating, and didn’t downplay the quality of his work.

“I think I can meet that expectation. I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t have gotten upset. I know this isn’t Durmstrang. It’s different here…better. I think I’m still getting used to it. Seven years is a long time to be anywhere…especially there. I’m sorry…professor. I will try to…control myself…better.”

Harry was just as eager to move forward from this past couple of days. The brief step into the past had been more than enough to tire him, and any relief was welcome now.

“I’ll pull those books immediately. Dueling starts for most of the classes this coming week. Every second day of each of my classes will be for applied and practical use of spells. Since we have a full docket of students, I’ll work you into the routine, training against the other seventh years students, and against me. With some of the advanced studies, I only allow the students to target me with their spells, since I’m best able to counter them and gauge the strength of their success. Among other things, I’ve had the fewest injuries to students in my classes for almost twelve years. That policy would be the reason why.”

Draco nodded neutrally. “I see. Very different from where I learned. We trained against each other most of the time, but we didn’t target the instructors…they targeted us. It didn’t go well for a student who…say…for instance…successfully counterattacked after breaking the curse that hit him. I should be very interested to see what your classes are like.”

Harry covered his frown well, trying to appear distracted and organizing the paperwork on his desk. The style of ‘instruction’ at Durmstrang still bothered him more than a little, but he hadn’t any intention of displaying such an emotional response in front of any pupil.

“Very well then. Mr. Malfoy…I will look forward to hearing your thoughts after we start the new week’s dueling classes. We’ll review in private after each dueling session, or thrice weekly. I think that concludes our conversation today. Good night, Draco.”

Draco stood, but looked like he was about to say something, and was uncertain of how to broach the subject. His cheeks were faintly pink. Harry invited any questions, taken the burden of silence away.

“Yes? Is there something amiss?”

“Um…I…about that book. I still…I’d like to read it.”

Harry pulled the book from under a pile of papers. He’d had it in his office since they’d last spoken, hoping that once things had smoothed over, Draco would still show an interest in Byron and other works.

“I’d hoped you might still want it. Here. Enjoy it.”

Draco took the book, flustered by the sudden realization that Harry had expected and hoped to hand it over all along.. It was easy to imagine someone as unreasonable right after a small row of sorts, but to realize that they hadn’t born any malice, and had only been waiting to make peace as soon as it was possible…it was sobering to say the least.

“Thank you…professor. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

Harry leaned back in his chair after the door was closed, rubbing his temples. It always came back to his Draco. One thing he knew well was what it meant to live in the shadow of parents he’d never met. Draco had left behind only one legacy, and that legacy was now a temperamental adolescent boy of eighteen, gifted and yet haunted, hungry for acceptance and full of the headstrong desire to take on the world his own way. Harry hadn’t been speaking idly. Draco Malfoy would have wanted his son to have a bright future. Harry hadn’t any choice now…the matter was long decided. Whether this boy drove him scatty or not, he would find a way to make his Draco’s legacy a happy one.

 

TBC!!!


	15. A Complicated Boy

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 15: A Complicated Boy

 

Harry made his way to Minerva’s office, restless after his most recent session with John Prewett. It had been a week since their last conversation, and not really a good one. The potion to soothe his sleeping mind had been an utter failure on every count. The dreams had become more vivid, and even less clouded. Draco…his Draco of many years ago…calling him to him, separated from him by cloudy, gray mists. Words of affection and comfort. Words of kindness. They still cut like knives. Harry had begun to dread sleep as much as he had in years past, when he’d withdrawn for whiskey and Dreamless Sleep. He felt hollow, and tired, most of the time, and it felt as if a blanket were wrapped around him and yet he couldn’t quite get warm. It wasn’t yet impairing his ability to teach, but if things continued as they had so far, he would have trouble concentrating when he needed to…and soon.

His erstwhile pupil was another matter. At least Draco had taken their peace-making to heart. He’d been quiet enough lately, and hadn’t been any trouble, but he had seemed a bit off during the dueling sessions. The boy scowled now and again, but performed the spells assigned to him, and participated with others as requested. He still didn’t seem to socialize well, and was constantly stiff and at guard when forced to work with the seventh year class. His spell work was superb, and his form and style while casting was nearly flawless. If anything, the boy’s only weakness was his youth and occasionally over eager urge to rush his spells. There was no question in Harry’s mind that, given time to mature and calm down, Draco would be a magician of stunning power and competence.

That brought him to his current meeting. Minerva was due to make a report to the Ministry soon, and wanted a complete review of Harry’s working relationship with his pupil before she made her report. While Harry intended to state as much as possible in Draco’s defense, there were thorny issues that were yet unresolved, and Harry knew it quite well.

He still had only Draco’s original answers regarding his intentions, and the boy hadn’t set any career goals per se. There were no solid answers for his social choices, even though Harry could make some adept guesses, and even Harry had to admit that there were things Draco chose not to speak of openly. To the Ministry, anything Draco did would likely be looked upon with suspicion, and until more information came Harry’s way, there was little he could say that they would consider to be of worth.

That, too, brought a new issue to light. The young man seemed to trust Harry, even if he was an argumentative and stubborn boy, and in the spirit of trust, Harry had brushed up against knowledge of the things that seemed to bother the boy most. These were very personal things, and Harry couldn’t escape the feeling that, if more details were to come to light, he would have to choose between guarding Draco’s right to privacy, and revealing to the Ministry those truths that might best serve to calm their fears. It wasn’t an appetizing choice either way. He didn’t want to leave the boy blacklisted for life because of a name he inherited, and he certainly didn’t want to betray the trust of a young man who clearly trusted very few people, but who obviously admired Harry enough to make a significant effort toward sharing his thoughts, however uncomfortable it may have been for the both of them.

None of this was made any easier by Harry’s ’condition’. In all other respects Harry was feeling better, but his sleep had become fitful and restless, mostly because of the anxiety that came of knowing what his mornings would surely bring. He woke early each day, sometimes hours early, always with the dream memory of his own Draco calling to him. It wasn’t that he woke with horror, or even with fear of some kind. It was sadness. 

When he dreamed, it felt as if Draco was close by, nearer to him than could ever be possible. He could almost remember exactly what it felt like to reach out for him and find Draco there waiting for him. When he woke, it was to an empty bed, and an empty life, echoes of yesterday reverberating through his soul. He didn’t wake because his sleep was a hell of the mind. He feared to sleep because it made waking more horrible than slumber. In his sleep, he heard the words he’d wanted to hear then. Draco, proclaiming his love, swearing fidelity, forgiving Harry’s explosion of temper, and apologizing for the silence between them at the finish of it all. It was a sweet fantasy. Too sweet, if one had to wake and return to a world that would never have that Draco in it again.

All of this was on Harry’s mind when he entered Minerva’s office and took a seat while she sorted out a few papers, acknowledging Harry with a smile and a kindly nod while she furiously scribbled away. Minerva tucked her quill back into its holder and took a deep breath.

“Ahh! Much better. My hands cramp something awful on days when I’ve this much to sign. It’s a cruel thing, aging. Grants a certain insight with one hand while stripping one of the energy of youth with the other. Are you doing alright, Harry? You look a bit tired.”

Harry sighed. “You’d be right. John Prewett and I are working on it, but I haven’t slept well at all…lately. That aside, I think I’m getting on fairly well. Not tipping over or anything of the like. Just bit ‘drawn out’, as it were.”

“Don’t play the stalwart hero with me, young man. If you’re in need of a rest, I’ll see what can be done to cover your classes while you and Master Prewett look after your health. Just because young Lord Malfoy is a priority, it doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate seeing you work yourself sick. Am I understood, Harry?”

“Absolutely! I’ll be alright. I’ve seen John every few days for the last couple weeks. If he thinks I need a break, I’m sure he’ll tell me. You know as well as I do that he isn’t the least bit shy of sharing his opinion. He’s been a great help, but…I still have dreams. I’ll admit…working with Draco the Younger isn’t a great help. He’s a good student…incredible actually…but it’s…very discomforting at times.”

“Well, that brings us to the subject of the hour. I have an initial report to draft now that he’s settled in here and fully vested in Hogwarts’ curriculum. The Ministry will be expecting me to update them as the year progresses, and I’ve made a few small inquiries of my own by requesting more elaborate records from Durmstrang. We’ll see soon enough what they have to say. I haven’t heard much of anything about the lad from the staff. I can only assume that he hasn’t been much trouble?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “To be entirely fair, I’d say that you’re right, but I seem to catch more of his interest than others. Minerva…there is something very off about his behavior. I can’t put my finger on it, and I’m sure he isn’t up to serious mischief of anything like that, but Draco has more than his share of issues, and he seems to keep his own counsel about them. He’s very sensitive about his family history, and I suspect his mother’s family made him aware of his father’s tarnished family name…and possibly the reasons for it as well. 

He’s incredibly gifted. Far beyond any student I’ve seen in years. He lacks patience with people, but when he sets his mind to class work, the boy is capable of miracles. I’m not entirely sure of how I’ll keep him busy this year. I’ve taken to re-reading my old Auror textbooks just to prepare some new material for him, and I drew a few musty, old tomes I haven’t read in years from the library. Building a DADA curriculum for a student past his seventh year is going to be quite a bit of work…especially for a student this far above the curve.

I can give you my personal confidence that Draco wants nothing more than to be recognized for his abilities, but I can’t give you more than guesses at his motivations or goals. And that brings me to another question. With all due respect, since he does seem most comfortable discussing his thoughts with me…albeit just barely…I’m not entirely comfortable divulging his innermost thoughts or feelings to anyone…especially if they’re to be inscribed and shipped off to some Ministry office. Would it at least be acceptable to give you literal reports of his behavior, and just gloss over anything not relevant to his case?”

Minerva MacGonagall pursed her lips, thinking carefully a moment before she answered. “Yes…I think that would be a perfectly acceptable compromise. I trust your judgment here, Harry. If you feel something is of sufficient importance, by all means, tell me, but if you’d feel better keeping the lad’s other confidences to yourself, go ahead. I don’t see any harm in that. I really ought to have something more than modest observations to share with the Ministry, though. Do you have anything you’d recommend?”

Harry gave the matter a little thought. “Yes…not much…but yes. Try pushing the misunderstood and confrontational genius angle as hard as you can. Assure them that I’m working with the lad personally and that his response seems very positive so far. In my opinion, and you can quote me on this, he seems very interested in overcoming a reputation he was born with rather than earned. Very much an uncompromising over-achiever, and I expect he feels very insecure about people’s opinions of him. I think that’s what really makes him seem so stand-offish. I honestly don’t think he has any ill intent in him, Minerva. He’s just a young man who got handed a few hard blows early on in life, and he’s making the best of it…figuring it out as he goes along.”

Minerva chuckled. “Sounds like another student I once had. He was a perfect terror when it came to following the rules and doing what he was told, but he certainly turned out alright in the end. I think you see more of yourself in him than you do Hermione Granger. I‘m glad you‘ve put some thought into this, Harry. I knew you‘d do your best even if it wasn‘t easy at times.”

Harry flushed crimson. He hadn’t had cause to seriously blush in years. He also hadn’t really drawn a clear comparison between Draco and himself…aside from the fates of their respective parents…until now.

“Alright. You have a point. I suppose I can’t help but feel something for a boy whose parents were killed when he was an infant…especially when he’s paying the price for their name in spite of never having met them. It just rankles, Minerva. It’s Draco’s son, for God’s sake. I feel like a very bright kid is being assigned some stigma over matters that have very little to do with him. I can’t ignore it, even if I wish I could get his father off my mind for just a few days. You’ve got my word on this…I’ll tell you if anything serious crops up, but I really think the Ministry has blown this entire thing out of proportion.”

“Very well, Harry. Your sentiments speak well of you. I’ll try to make this report as mitigating as possible, and we’ll see if the Ministry budges a little. You might find it hard to believe, but your name still carries a bit of weight over there. Until you told me of things that had passed years ago, I’d never have guessed at them. You’re a person still spoken of with respect in those halls, and I’m sure your words will do some good on the boy’s behalf. For now, just keep doing the best you can, and if John Prewett tells you that you need rest, I expect you to take his advice…or you’ll hear from me!”

Harry nodded, somewhat mollified and feeling better. It was comforting to know that, in spite of what he’d done years ago, his word was still taken to mean something. He’d never been given to lying or exaggeration, and a lifetime of honesty had its rewards. The only time Harry had ever broken that pattern of basic honesty, it had been because of Draco Malfoy, and because of the turmoil it would have caused in wartime. Afterwards, he’d kept his silence out of bitterness, and a deep desire not to be pitied. In the end, he’d kept his silence because of shame, and because others had worked hard to erase the evidence of his mistakes. Once he’d come to Hogwarts as a teacher, he’d returned to a lifetime habit of giving his unvarnished opinion to people, and now the fruits of that labor were becoming useful.

“Thanks. I’ll listen to John…don’t you worry. And I’ll take care of myself. You needn’t give it another thought. We’ll work something out. I think this ends the day well. Hell, I actually feel a bit better already. I’ll see you at breakfast. Alright, Headmistress?”

“Alright, Harry. Good night.”

Minerva picked up her quill and returned to her workload, and Harry strolled back into the halls, headed for his suite. He made himself comfortable as soon as he was safe inside his own quarters, peeling off his professor’s robes at last, and set to making a cup of tea. The knock at the door was a respectful one, and Harry made his way over to answer it, only to find Draco waiting for him quietly, Lord Byron’s poetry in hand.

“Professor…I’d like to speak with you at length. May I come in?”

It was phrased with perfect politeness, but there was a subtle undertone to the question. A hint of testing. Despite the fact that Harry rather wanted his tea in silence, telling the boy no after a he’d demonstrated an understanding of what he’d been told would probably be counter-productive. Harry nodded quietly and made his peace with his nerves.

“By all means. Please do. Would you like some tea?”

 

TBC!!!


	16. Tea And Sympathy

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 16: Tea And Sympathy

 

Draco took a seat at Harry’s small table, fidgeting nervously with the book he’d brought back. Harry poured tea for the both of them, painfully aware of the edgy ‘presence’ of another in his private quarters. These rooms had been his home for many years, and inside these walls he was most comfortable…until now. Draco had done well, showing clearly that he respected what he’d been told, but there was no way to eject him immediately without betraying the very concept he’d tried to impart. For better or worse, Harry would simply have to make his way through a conversation with Draco’s son, and truthfully, it was something that he might well gain from getting used to. Draco had come for an education, and it was starting in earnest now. Harry just needed to make himself more comfortable with the small realities of that task.

Harry handed off a cup of tea and took a seat across from Draco. “Now then, what was it you wanted to talk about…at length? I hope you enjoyed the book.”

Draco looked distracted, as if he was fumbling with something difficult to say, and it didn’t hold out a lot of hope that Harry’s evening would remain peaceful.

“Oh. Yes. It was very good. I liked it. I usually read textbooks. Not literature. It was…very different. He was…Lord Byron that is…a very passionate person, wasn’t he? It struck me that way.”

“He was indeed. Not one for sitting still and writing, he tended to act first and write about it later. Much of his writing was fueled by personal experience, rather than idle musing over what he‘d never seen or done. An utterly remarkable fellow.”

“Yes. Anyhow…I brought it back, and I thank you for it, but there was something else I really…I need to talk about.”

Harry could feel dread filling him, icy claws in his gut. This simply couldn’t be good. The boy was distraught, almost too uptight to even speak with his usual candor. He should be thinking of the needs of a student, but all he really felt was a powerful urge to run. The liquid shimmering in his cup gave tale to the faint tremor in his hand, and Harry quickly sipped his tea and returned the cup to the table, placing his hand smoothly around the edge of the table, hiding his rattled nerves.

“It’s alright. I can’t promise answers, but you shouldn’t be ashamed to ask a question with honest intentions behind it. Go on.” It was said so matter-of-factly. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t feel the least bit matter-of-fact inside.

“I’ve been reading. Researching. A lot of things. Not all for classes. Some things about…about my family. Asking questions. There are things I…I don’t understand.”

‘Oh, Dear God. He couldn’t have. Please don’t let him have found…’

“I knew you were an Auror…before Hogwarts. Everyone knows that. I didn’t know you…you were in charge of their case…my parent’s case. I want…I want you to tell me what happened. I want to know. I deserve it. Please. Tell me what happened…after they were killed.”

Harry panicked. This was not a conversation he wanted to have again…not now…and not with Draco’s son. There was sense in what the lad had said, but it was too much. More than he could discuss. He fled for the safety of his teacup, wishing dearly that it had been filled with Firewhiskey instead of Darjeeling. 

“I’m…I’m very sorry. I can’t talk…about that. I understand that you…you want to know about these things. But please…understand that there are things I don’t wish to discuss with anyone. It’s done. It’s past, and nothing can change that. Let’s talk abo-”

“NO! Let’s talk about this!” Despite remaining motionless, Draco was radiating sudden outrage, and his eyes were blazing as Harry looked away and focused on his tea. “What happened to their case? I…want…to…know! You were the Auror in charge! Tell me what you know about my parents’ murderers!”

Harry took a deep breath, clenching his one hand along the edge of the table to keep from shaking, holding the teacup serenely in his other hand. Nothing would be gained by losing his own temper.

“Draco…there is nothing I can tell you about what happened after that. That case was closed and sealed by Ministry orders. I think you need to calm down and think about the present…and your future. We can’t li-”

Draco leaned forward sharply, face reddened with anger, almost hissing with spite and anger.

“YOU…ARE…LYING! The case was NEVER SOLVED! What…happened…to…my…parents!”

Harry fumbled for self control. His heart was thundering in his ears again. He raised the cup with a trembling grip, struggling with the tremors in his hand and stuttering his reply.

“I…there’s…Draco. I can’t discuss this...with you. I must ask you to leave. The case was closed and that’s fin-”

Draco exploded into action, slapping the teacup from Harry’s hand and sweeping the table clear of dishes with his arm. Book, saucers, cup and tea went crashing to the floor while he stood up and knocked his chair back, roaring into Harry’s face with unconcealed rage.

“YOU QUIT! THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED! YOU COWARD! YOU LET THEM GET AWAY WITH IT! You aren’t a hero! You’re a pathetic, stuttering coward who let someone get away with killing my parents! THEY RUINED MY LIFE! THEY TOOK MY FAMILY! AND ALL YOU COULD DO WAS QUIT! YOU’RE A CONTEMPTABLE FRAUD! I HATE YOU!”

Harry withstood Draco’s tirade in numb silence. It occurred to him that he almost deserved it, if things had been as Draco saw them. Draco didn’t know what had really become of his parent’s killers, and if Harry’s heart ached to tell him, his sense of propriety controlled him still. Draco was too young, too overwrought, and much too close to the matter to be told what had happened. More than anything, he needed to let go of this obsession over his past, and start his future, not terribly unlike Harry himself. Harry took a single deep breath, and tried to radiate calm in the face of a young man who looked almost insane with grief and anger, tears streaming down a face that was nearly crimson, puffing with the need for breath.

“You can hate me if you want to. If that makes you feel better. It doesn’t matter. Nothing we do or feel will bring anyone back from death. That’s just the way it is, Draco. The case was closed and sealed. I’m sorry. There will be things in this world that you will never know. Perhaps this is just one of them. You think knowing these things will give you peace? Did you ever consider that sometimes greater knowledge only gives greater pain? It’s true. I know this to be true. What I know has not given me any comfort. Sometimes knowledge is not the answer. I want better than this for you.”

Draco stood stock still, leaning over the table and panting for breath while wrestling for self control. He looked like he was contemplating the unthinkable, giving due thought to actually attacking Harry physically.

“You said…you said were his friend. What kind of friend would have let the ones who did that go free? Fuck you and your knowledge! I want justice! Someone should pay!”

“If you knew their names, Draco. If you could find them all right now…what would you do with that knowledge?”

Draco’s answer came a heartbeat later, fast with the heartfelt certainty of youth, hissed with a venom that was frightening.

“I’d kill them myself! I’d make them pay for what they did. For what they left me to! I’d never stop searching until I found them and made them pay! Unlike you, I would have finished the job!”

“And then what? Do you really know if murder would make you feel better…or worse? Is one murderer better than another? How many people would die every day…if we justified our actions with revenge for the hurts done to us? Would there be anyone left? You wouldn’t be the aggrieved anymore, you would be the killer with blood on your hands, running from your crime for the rest of your life. Is that anything your parents would have wanted? I don’t think so. I told you I want better than that for you. I meant it.”

Draco looked terribly confused, confronted with a string of calm questions that subtly undermined the immediacy of his emotions and gut feelings.

“I…I…but…you never…they-”

“Draco. Go back to your quarters. Neither you nor anyone else can think clearly in a state like this. I forgive what you’ve done here…tonight…because you have every right to be upset, no matter how wrongly you’ve shown it. I really am sorry that I cannot tell you the things you want to know, but there are things I have no desire to share with anyone. Not merely you. Anyone. Take a shower, clean yourself up, and go to sleep. We’ll treat this as if it never happened in the morning. Is that acceptable?”

Most of his energy had been spent in the initial explosion of temper, and Draco was shaking at the knees and trembling badly now that the rush of adrenaline had fled. Harry’s eyes had flicked to the book, sprawled in a puddle of tea on the floor, and Draco blanched momentarily, taking stock of what he’d just done for the first time. His expression flashed from contrition and guilt, horror and embarrassment, back to a blend of controlled anger and frustration while he spluttered.

“I’m so-…I…I have to go.” He bolted from the room a second later, leaving the door open while Harry sighed and rubbed his temples.

Spells would fix the cups and saucers, and spells would clean the book and floor, but spells didn’t seem to be enough to lighten the atmosphere of grief and anger that had saturated Harry’s rooms.

He’d have to see Minerva about some of this. Draco was unquestionably unstable, depending on what he was dealing with, and Harry had finally seen evidence that, even if he had no evil intentions, an exceptionally powerful young wizard lacked almost any semblance of self control when he was angry. Some of it was Harry’s own fault. Draco would have to be dealt with more carefully, assuming he even responded to instruction from Harry now that this had come to light. He’d been so close to building a decent working relationship with the boy, only to see it collapse in one evening.

Harry spelled the door shut and started cleaning up the mess, only to kneel beside his book and stroke its old leather cover gently. His past. As dear to him as Draco’s…and just as grimly clung to. He’d said things that Draco couldn’t understand, because he hadn’t understood them either. Not in the heat of his wrath. He’d done precisely what Draco would have, and his questions had been the sum of his experience with death and killing. Perhaps he was wrong. Was Draco any more or less unstable than he himself had been back then? Either way, this evening had complicated things enormously, and Harry preferred not to imagine making his way through tomorrow’s dueling class with Draco in attendance.

Lord Byron’s book had soaked up the tea in a way befitting a thirsty Englishman, and it took several spells to set it right before he fixed the china. Harry missed his evening drink more than ever this night. The calm that had suffused him during that nightly ritual was what he missed most. Not the drink itself, but the association of stability and peace.

There was nothing for it. Tonight, like every bloody night before it, he would dream of what he couldn’t see in the living world, and he would wake with tear stained cheeks to memories of what was gone. That was just the way of it, and even whiskey couldn’t really make that go away. Harry found his bed and closed his eyes once again, dread fluttering in his stomach. Perhaps he’d wake tired, or wake early, or wake sharply and full of the tangible sense of aloneness, but by God…he would wake sober.

Late into the night, in his own quarters, Draco Malfoy slumped over another book, once guarded by locks and spells, whispering between breaths as slumber claimed him, tears still damp on his cheeks.

 

TBC!!!


	17. A Battle Of Wills And Skills

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 17: A Battle Of Wills And Skills

 

Harry had made it through the day with only his standard doses of potion, despite having been plagued by vivid dreams once again. In truth, he was exhausted, at least physically, but he felt surprisingly calm in spite of it all. He was growing used to it in a way. Each night he saw Draco, heard his voice, knew that he was wanted and missed, and felt good, if bitter sweetly reminiscent. Each morning he woke to remember that Draco was dead, and always would be. It hurt…considerably, but he’d nursed a silent hurt for many years, sometimes only remembering the faintest fuzzy moments of his dreams. Draco’s face was fresh in his mind now. Lean and angular, aristocratic and full of wry and impish humor. It was something. A small plus amongst the many minuses.

He’d be seeing John Prewett again shortly, to try a change of potions and other magical sleep aids, and he’d have to see Minerva again soon. Parts of the previous night’s debacle with Draco the Younger had nagged at his conscience all day. The boy hadn’t come to breakfast, and while he’d apparently attended his other classes, he’d skipped the sixth year lecture for DADA, and Harry was about to start his final class of the day, with the room adjusted for dueling practice. Students were filtering in, and Harry watched carefully until the last students sat down. Draco strolled in dead last, clearly making a show of his tardiness, sneering ever so faintly all the while, and took his seat in a lazy sprawl.

Harry studiously ignored the minor insolence, starting his instruction with a fairly routine combination of spells for seventh year students. The students would be paired off against one opponent each in the early classes, and eventually against a ’gauntlet’ of their fellow students before the year was over. This day they would be casting traditional Stunning Spells and the classic Protego as they dueled one another formally, this time quite slowly by Harry’s standards, but with greater speed in later classes. In the final classes for seventh year, it wasn’t uncommon for duels to involve almost a dozen spells per pupil, but for the start of the year’s dueling classes, Harry always started with the classics. Cast Stunner…block with Protego. Cast…block with Protego.

One student was missing altogether, but he was accounted for already, having been the accidental victim of a misfired gag gift earlier that day. The unfortunate boy had grown ears so large that it became difficult to hold his head upright, and John Prewett was working on a proper antidote. In a worst case scenario, they might well have render the poor boy unconscious, lop the things off and grow him new ones. Draco grudgingly rose from his seat and slouched his way into position against the one student left without a partner.

Harry explained the terms of these short duels, though everyone new them well from previous years, then marched back to the end of the line and gave the order to begin.

A thunderous report was heard from the end of the line, and Draco’s opponent went sliding into the wall at the back of the room. Shouts of protest and pointed wands were already starting as Harry stepped into motion ready to bellow for peace, when a flurry of spells Stunned and disarmed three more students. Draco was still standing with wand upright, sneering at the outraged class while Harry rattled off a hasty spell for the student who’d struck the wall, snapping the lad awake instantly. Harry then turned his full attention on Draco, who launched into an immediate tirade.

“Pathetic! This class couldn’t defend itself against the weakest of spells. Small wonder, that…with a miserable fake for a professor! Second years at Durmstrang are more dangerous!”

Harry’s voice was as cold as ice. Very real outrage was fluttering at the edge of his nerves, and it was with great effort that he controlled his voice in front of the class.

“Mr. Malfoy…these are opening practice duels, not final combat duels. Apologize immediately to the student you unfairly struck with Expelliarmus. There was no call for what you did, and I will not tolerate any such conduct in this class.”

Draco spat his answer out, chin up defiantly. “Apologize? Hah! The weak deserve what they get! I’ll apologize when you prove you can cast all those spells you claim you know! I want to duel you! I challenge you.”

Somewhere in his soul, Harry had drawn a line in the sand, and Draco had willingly crossed it. He felt no qualms about what was coming. Injuring a student, even mildly, over deliberate malice toward Harry, was not forgivable. Draco wouldn’t listen to reason in his current mood, and it was possible that this had been coming since the first day he set foot in the school. If he was to truly know who was the teacher and who was the student, this lesson would be necessary. He answered without hesitation, biting back the anger that would only distract in a duel.

“Accepted. Warding Shield for two opponents, the best one you can cast. We duel inside it, so that nothing leaks out. That’s my condition as the person challenged.”

“Accepted.” To his credit, Draco cast a flawless matrix of energy over the two of them, some twenty feet long and almost ten feet wide, while students outside the shield became faintly blurry and moved around the edges with fascination.

Harry took his position, in proper and classical form, while Draco remained carefully poised, wand arm forward, body angled slightly to make him less of a target. His eyes never wavered from his target. Harry nodded for the duel to begin, and was almost surprised by the speed with which Draco rattled off spells.

But not enough. He had known full well that Draco was very, very good, and was entirely prepared for the flurry of spells that came his way. He took the defensive, which wasn’t generally the best tactic to take, but Draco was owned almost entirely by his anger and would tire himself out much quicker than most.

Two sizzling levin-bolts cracked his shield, and Harry quickly flung a spell that transformed the stones of the floor into a grasping claw, raising new shields while Draco paused a second to blast the claw into powder. The tempo of the duel shifted momentarily, with Harry testing boundaries by hurtling more complicated spells into Draco’s path, keeping the young man busy with carefully cast blocks for each spell. 

Unlike any of his students, Harry had lived through a war. His calm in a duel was unshakeable, and in the past two decades he’d gained a mastery of spells he’d never even heard of then. Each feint and block and hurled spell was rote and familiar, even after years of disuse. Combat with multiple opponents had been the norm then, and the real challenge was drawing Draco out in the course of the duel, deliberately frustrating him in order to provoke a clear mistake. That was where the real lesson would lay. When this was over, Draco would know what his greatest weakness was, and Harry would scarcely have to say a word to prove his point. Weakness was blind anger, not the refusal to use unnecessary force. This would be Draco’s lesson, and a lesson for all in attendance as well.

Draco was sweating profusely, snarling under his breath while conjuring sheets of fire and stinging showers of acid venom. Harry met the fire with blinding hail and snow, and transformed the acid into soft sparks that flitted gently to earth. Then Draco upped the ante. The spells weren’t classified as Unforgivable, but they were unquestionably Dark in origin, and any one of them would have sufficed to end a duel against someone unprepared for them.

Harry knew every counter curse, and every permutation of Finite, and even every spell that Draco cast. Auror training had been comprehensive, and Harry had completed the DADA-related portions in record time. These weren’t new to him, but familiar from his time fighting Death Eaters. He let Draco take the offensive once again, and poured his effort into blocking spells calmly while Draco tired himself out. To be honest, this was the best duel he’d fought in years, and he felt quite remarkably alive in the heart of it, all worries and fears forgotten in the precise and beautiful poetry of action.

Draco had grown desperate, sweat drenched and cursing between hastily spoken phrases in Latin. Harry almost thought to end the duel, when Draco finally surprised him. The wand was firing spells in rapid succession, but Draco brought up his free hand and flung lesser spells by will alone…wandlessly. The Stinging Hex set Harry’s arm on fire briefly, and he was forced to fight fire with fire, watching Draco’s smug smile fade to shock when Harry cast both a fresh Protego from his wand and flung a matched set of Freezing Charms from his hand, shifting Draco into the role of defender.

Harry sensed the desperation, and raised his final shield, one learned only by Aurors, which was quite nearly impermeable. Draco’s spells deflected helplessly off of it, setting off a frenzy of black and horrible curses, all Dark or at least dangerous, but none Unforgivable for an adult wizard in a formal duel. Each shattered against Harry’s cone of golden light while Harry prepared his final attack in perfect calm.

As Draco was mouthing a curse, Harry timed an utter flurry of Immobilizing and Binding Spells. Draco fumbled back to the defensive and was completely absorbed in the task of holding back the dual attacks from wand and will, when Harry uttered a final, nearly unstoppable spell. Draco was bound tightly in coils of shimmering force, struggling while they closed slowly around him. His wand clattered to the floor, and the counter-spells he gasped out failed one by one while Harry watched impassively. The bands grew tighter still, while Draco stubbornly fought them. That was their nature. As long as one fought them, they drew inward, cutting off air and strength, forcing breath from lungs, ultimately stopping only when the victim of the spell collapsed or surrendered. Draco’s face was crimson and his eyes and veins were bulging before he toppled, breathless, beaten, and very nearly unconscious. Harry still wasn’t sweating.

Harry dispelled his golden shield, then dismantled Draco’s wards and picked up the wand while Draco lay on the floor, red-faced and gasping for breath as the bands of force loosened ever so slightly, responding to his passivity.

“I think observing the events of this duel qualifies as an education in itself. Mr. Malfoy? Will you acknowledge that the duel is ended?”

Draco looked bitter, but mostly exhausted, and nodded his head somberly, resting it on the flagstones after the effort to signal his defeat. Harry whisked away the magic bands that constricted Draco’s entire body, and the younger man’s limbs flopped to the ground while he sucked in a deep lungful of air.

“Mr. Malfoy. You will go to my office and wait for me quietly. We will discuss your conduct, and a suitable punishment for it, when I join you. Am I understood?”

Draco crawled to his feet, and nodded assent, then limped to the door of Harry’s office. Harry turned to the assembled class, which was still silent and awestruck by what they had just witnessed.

“Let us divide the duel into three parts. It is only my opinion, but I think that almost all of you might have acquitted yourself well during the first portion of the duel, had any of you been in my shoes and well prepared. A fair number of you might have done well even into the second part of that duel, owing largely to speed of response and calm while casting and responding. Good shields are of course essential. The last third…was different from anything you have seen…for a reason. To duel at that level, you must be fighting for your life, even if it isn’t genuinely on the line. You must treat every spell as an attempt to end your life, or you will surely slip and let one overwhelm you or otherwise rattle your nerves.”

“You may have noticed the spell that hit me still didn’t change my responses or their pace. In past years, you’ve been hit by spells in practice duels, and the duel stops immediately. In reality, you will have no such luxury. If one hits, you must be ready to counter-spell it yourself and move on without flinching, or simply continue as best you can. We will practice this very thing as the year progresses. Conquering your own fears and remaining calm will be essential to your success in this class.”

“How does an early dismissal from class sound to everyone? For our next class, I want each of you to write up everything that you saw cast today, as well as an analysis of the entire duel. No less than fifteen inches of parchment, since I can personally vouch that that would be a short summary of the match. If you didn’t know the name of a certain spell, simply describe its effects and I will discuss it at length after I’ve read all your papers. You are all dismissed.”

There were mixed looks of eagerness and disappointment. An early end to class was a sweet treat, but another parchment’s worth of work was a bitter to pill to take with it. Still, a few students were already scribbling notes as they walked, trying to record as much as they could recall while it was still fresh. Harry waited until the last one had left, then closed the classroom door and headed for his office. Now he could afford anger, and anger was completely justified for this case.

Harry opened his office door and stopped cold, mouth agape is complete shock while he stood stock still, taking in the spectacle before him.

Draco had placed his hands on either end of Harry’s desk, and was bent half across it, shirt peeled to his waist, displaying a smooth expanse of glistening and pale skin, faintly pink from exertion. His head was hung low, and he was absolutely silent, waiting stoically for a form of punishment that hadn’t been used at Hogwarts in over half a century.

Harry was aghast. Dark curses, duels, and dragons were things he’d battled and beaten with comparative ease. Half-naked young men were something far more frightening. There were no counter-spells for the blush that hit his cheeks a second later. Harry lost his temper completely.

“What in the bloody, buggery hell do you think you’re doing?! Put your shirt and robes back on this minute!”

This was going to be a lot more complicated than he’d thought.

 

TBC!!!


	18. Irony and Memories

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 18: Irony and Memories

 

_Draco grabbed him by the hand, dragging him along through the halls of Grimmauld Place quickly, while Harry protested mildly in confusion._

_“Hey! What’s the hurry? Where are we going? What’s got into you?”_

_They’d only been seeing each other ‘romantically’ for a matter of a few weeks. Prior to that, their time together had largely been spent arguing or pretending to ignore each other, until something like friendship had emerged, only to be quickly replaced by a lot more than that. Harry had been in a perpetual state of confusion, alternately awed by the way his life had suddenly changed and the feelings that came of being young and in love, and a little frightened of the sudden power of intimacy._

_Draco pulled harder at his arm, forcing him to move faster down the upstairs hall._

_“Really! You are hopeless, Harry. Nothing’s got into me…yet! I mean to fix that. The others just left. We’ve got time, and I have some new ideas I just have to try out. You’ll like them…shut up and trust me!”_

_Harry grinned helplessly. Draco always took charge, at least when it came to initiating sex. The hints he’d made weren’t lost on Harry, and he still blushed when he thought about what they were about to get up to._

_It wasn’t as if he hadn’t snogged a bit before, but Draco had hurried their explorations along fairly quickly, introducing Harry to things he hadn’t really had the time or wherewithal to even imagine. As soon as others were out of the house, Draco was on fire with need, completely shameless about his desire to get Harry into the nearest bed or quiet room…and Harry hadn’t any intention of complaining._

_“We haven’t been in here before. It’s an old study. Nobody’s even using this room, so it’s not like we’re intruding on someone’s personal space or anything. We’ve already done it in the living room and kitchen and the bathroom and our rooms. I figured a change of pace would be fun! It's been, like, three whole days! I thought they’d never piss off and leave us alone again.”_

_Draco had opened the door to the room and pulled Harry through, closing it behind them and pinning Harry against the door. Draco had several inches of height on him, and ground his hips against Harry’s while he ruthlessly snogged Harry into a state of excitement. Harry turned his head and let Draco work his lips down Harry’s neck and toward the pit of his throat. His shirt was being peeled away and Draco had a hand down the front of his pants already, stroking him roughly even inside his shorts. All Harry could do and stay coherent was relax and let Draco please the both of them however he wanted to do it._

_It took less than a minute before he was standing in his own pile of clothes, supported by the door behind him, knees shaking while Draco hungrily lapped and stroked his cock. Draco only paused occasionally to peel away his own shirt and unbutton his trousers, tugging at the stiffening flesh straining inside his slacks while he attended carefully to Harry’s rigid prick._

_Pre-come glistened at the head while Draco nuzzled his cheek against Harry’s cock._

_“Eager much?”_

_Harry could only chuckle nervously. “Well…yeah. Wouldn’t you be? You’re bloody incredible…you know that…right?”_

_Draco smirked, hiding a faint blush by making himself busy and lapping away the droplet of come that shone at the tip of Harry’s cock. A second later, he had the majority of it in his mouth and was noisily sucking Harry off while Harry bit his lip and lost himself in the moment, hands fumbling in Draco’s hair while he whimpered softly._

_He was right on the brink of orgasm, practically on tip toes, when Draco pulled away sharply, gasping for breath._

_“No.”_

_“Ha…uhh…wha? No?” He’d only barely retained the mental strength to wonder what Draco meant. Was he not supposed to come?_

_“Come on. The desk is perfect. It’s bloody huge. Lots of room. Follow me if you want to really get off right and proper.”_

_Harry stepped out of the puddle of clothing at his feet and sheepishly followed Draco across the room, snickering at the weirdness of the two of them starkers and stiff in the otherwise undisturbed silence of Grimmauld Place._

_At first, Draco climbed onto the desk and laid on his back near the edge, and Harry moved close, trying to position himself for what was sure to come, but the desk was just a few inches too tall for what they’d had in mind. It was an impressive old antique, and built to be imposing, but it also meant that penetration would be impossible, even on tip toes. Harry flushed with irritation. Draco laughed throatily and mussed Harry‘s hair before kissing him and stroking his flagging prick back to life._

_“Alright, alright. No jokes about height. You’re perfect where it counts, right? Let’s try something different.”_

_Draco slid down, long legs flexing a moment before he pulled Harry close and wiped every trace of frustration away with a savage kiss. Draco was slim and clean and smooth, while Harry was built powerful and bunchy, with heavier shoulders and hips and the early hints of what would be a modestly hairy chest. They were near opposites in every way, but wrapped closely like this, pressed together and hot with urgency, differences melted away and meant nothing._

_Draco turned around and grabbed hold of both the long ends of the desk, spreading his legs just enough to expose himself completely, and when he leaned down and laid his head on the desk with sigh, Harry knew what to do without even thinking first._

_A whispered spell and he could finally do away with his wand, rubbing the slickness into Draco and onto his own cock in turn. His knees still felt a little shaky. They’d only started doing this kind of thing in the last couple weeks. It was still a little strange and frightening. The sensations were overpowering, and the realness of it all was enough to take his breath away._

_A moment later he was sliding into his boyfriend’s body, while Draco moaned softly and pushed back, pulling more of Harry into him quickly._

_“Bloody hell…that’s better. Feels so…good. Merlin, have I missed this. Three bloody days. Mmm…Harry…go on, give us a good shagging, right?”_

_Draco had rather surprised Harry when he turned out to favor being the ‘bottom’. Harry had always imagined Draco as unwilling to surrender to another or even perform any act that was less than dominant. Under the surface, Draco was quite different than anyone could have imagined. He was nervous, shy, quiet and deeply insecure, and needed constant reminders that his company was wanted and enjoyed._

_This wasn’t to say that Draco was submissive. He wasn’t…not even in the slightest. He was very much outspoken about what he expected and what he desired, enough so that Harry found himself blushing a lot more than he ever had in school. Draco was explicit when he described every lascivious detail of what he enjoyed, and he was both frank and forward when it came to anything sexual. Bottom he might be, but Harry felt entirely comfortable letting Draco set the pace for their relationship, and even define the terms of it._

_He regretted nothing. Draco had a playful sense of humor, wasn’t the least bit shy about intimacy, and to Harry’s surprise, even knew when not to say something that would only cause hurt. They’d crossed a boundary weeks ago, and there was every reason to believe that the only person Draco had ever behaved so comfortably around had been Harry. Given that Draco could also be a proud, vain and moody creature, the fact that he trusted Harry completely meant more than words could ever define._

_Harry wasn’t a complete fumbling naïf anymore, not after weeks of sexual activity. He could read the small sounds and hints that Draco gave, and he responded accordingly. When something he did excited or pleased his boyfriend, he remembered it and tried to make sure he did the same thing as often as possible. He’d figured out the speed and depth that Draco responded to best, and strove to recreate them every time they had privacy. The results had been just stellar so far._

_This was a relatively new position for the both of them, since they’d really only been at this for a short while. Harry was thrusting carefully, sorting out what Draco liked best, and he was conscious of the sheen of sweat on his face in the cool of the room. Draco’s body was tight and hot, and the urge to come and come quickly was hard to suppress, but if he paused or changed rhythms from time to time it helped._

_Draco’s cock was a stiff and pale rod, leaking the first hints of pre-come while he ground back into Harry’s strokes, panting heavily and giving every evidence of enjoying himself. Harry slipped his hand around Draco’s waist, wrapping it around the flesh he found stiffened and eager for contact._

_Draco mewled helplessly, wordlessly begging for release, and Harry obliged as best he could, tugging gently around the foreskin and head the way Draco liked most, keenly aware of the way Draco wriggled back against him, unable to stay still when he was most excited._

_Draco’s skin was flushed and hot, and his breath came in desperate little gasps while he hovered less than a minute on the edge of orgasm. With short, sharp, staccato cries he came into Harry’s hand, and Harry let go and took hold of Draco’s hips while he delivered a few last powerful thrusts before coming hard and well, loving the way Draco’s body tightened around his cock during orgasm._

_His boyfriend flopped, sweaty, shuddering and spent, onto the desk, and Harry fell across him comfortably, head at rest on Draco’s back while they caught their breath. Every few seconds his cock would pulse again, pumping a few last drops into his lover’s body, making Harry tense for just a few seconds at a time. Draco could barely speak, but a few words slipped out breathily._

_“Per….perfect. You’re perfect, Harry. That was…great. Thank…thank you.”_

_So proper. So content and still so proper. Draco never whispered open or obvious oaths of love, but he never failed to say something heartfelt or approving. Harry knew what he meant. He also knew what was hard for Draco to say. Harry whispered his own words of affection, but avoided the one clichéd phrase that made Draco so uncomfortable. They never spoke of love, but it didn’t really matter. In every other way…they lived it the best they could...here in the middle of a war, never sure of what would happen to them next, and that would have to be enough._

But Grimmauld Place was a different time and a faraway place. Harry had taken from that place only a few things that mattered. His books and mementos, a few attractive things for his suite at Hogwarts…and the desk.

Finding Draco’s son sprawled across it, shirt hanging around his waist and back bared for some kind of savage and brutal beating, was a perversion of everything decent and happy in his memories. Harry, already far from his best mood after the day’s events, finally snapped, all sense of professionalism gone in a heartbeat.

A flashback of days past and bittersweetly beautiful memories destroyed slid away, and he was trembling with rage, looking at the sulky and impudent brat that had practically assaulted a student just to lure Harry into a duel. There was nothing calm or sage in Harry’s tone when he could finally bring himself to speak.

“What the bloody, buggery hell do you thing you’re doing!? Put your shirt and robes back on this instant!”

Draco rose and turned slowly, looking confused but still angry. His face was still red from their earlier encounter, but the sullen anger in his eyes was still visible.

“I…I thought…”

“WHO CARES WHAT YOU THOUGHT! Put your things on this minute! Follow a fucking order when you’re given one! Just this fucking once!”

Draco started back, thrown off by the frightening veneer of rage that twisted Harry’s face. The profanity was crude and loud, and utterly out of character for the quiet and intelligent gentleman he’d grown used to. Draco fumbled with his shirt quickly and tried to restrain the comments on the tip of his tongue.

“But…”

“BUT!? SHUT…YOUR…MOUTH! There is nothing…nothing you can say that I want to hear! I’ll do the talking for awhile!”

“I only…”

Harry’s wand came up, and the way it trembled slightly made the level of Harry’s rage utterly clear. Draco closed his mouth and reached for his robes, suddenly quite aware that he was in danger. He didn’t want to admit it, but the man had been toying with him during the entire duel. It had been nothing but spirited exercise for Harry Potter, and he was more than a little nervous about the professor’s state of mind. It was possible that whatever came out of that wand wouldn’t be a simple hex or charm.

Harry stalked the room in silence while Draco pulled on his robes. When Draco slouched back against the desk, still sullen and with arms crossed in impatience, the explosion of words finally came.

“How fucking dare you! Inexcusable! Intolerable! I’ve had it! I don’t care about your academic abilities. I don’t care where you came from or how you bloody well feel about it! I don’t even see a reason for you to remain here. I have nothing to teach to the kind of cowardly sneak who practically assaults a student just to pull me into a duel over a petty grudge!

Don’t even play the innocent with me! You’re too bright to fake that. You didn’t get what you wanted, so like a spoiled brat you staged a tantrum. You insulted me in front of my class, after disobeying instructions that were perfectly clear. Your reasons are irrelevant. I can’t justify keeping you here at the risk of other students…and frankly your behavior today makes me sicken at the sight of you.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed for a few moments while the words bit at him. Expulsion. He’d gone too far, and they didn’t dole out whippings here. There were no house points to be taken for a houseless student. He’d lost his temper, and now he’d lost his time here. Something resolved in him. There was nothing to lose. He’d be out of here anyway. Might as well go for broke.

“I don’t care. It doesn’t matter! So you won. Big deal. I was still right. You’re a coward too. The great Auror who quit when he could have delivered something like justice. You couldn’t even finish the job when they killed your- HURK!”

He’d been addressing Harry’s turned back, and then a hand was clamped around his windpipe and his feet weren’t touching the floor anymore. He grabbed hold of the single hand that held him aloft and tried to pull away, but the fingers were solid around his throat, and red was tinting his vision while he struggled to suck in air. He was at arm’s length, and he was still held up almost effortlessly, too far away to do more than kick and jerk feebly.

“You arrogant little shit!” The words came out a pinched hiss, while Harry’s eyes bored into the frightened gray ones above him. “You fucking presume to know what I have or haven’t done? What I can or can’t do? You know nothing…NOTHING!”

“You want vengeance? You want death on your hands? Think that will make you feel better? You’re a fool! I killed them. The ones who did it! I killed them all. I snuffed them out like candles. They don’t keep murderers in the Auror service. Not even former heroes.”

Harry lowered his arm and pushed back gently, sending Draco casually tumbling to the floor, sucking in deep lungful after lungful of air.

“There’s your vengeance. They erased the records and covered it up, because their precious hero killed three people in cold blood. There was nothing glorious about it. Nothing was better. Just three dead bodies to join the two that came first. I wake up every day with the knowledge of what I’ve done…and it makes me sick…because I enjoyed it. I wanted vengeance…and I took it. IT CHANGED NOTHING! I hope you got what you wanted. I thought I did, and I threw away my career, and my self respect, to get it. Now you’ve thrown away your time here. Go pack your things and get out of my sight. Get out.”

Draco crawled to his feet and ran, head overloaded with thoughts and feelings and images he couldn’t manage, and he kept running until he found his rooms.

TBC!!!


	19. Spirited Intervention

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 19: Spirited Intervention

 

Draco fled down the hallways of Hogwarts with his face burning, ducking past students quickly to hide his appearance. The disheveled clothes and humiliating tears were nothing he wanted others to see. The safety of his own suite was all he craved, and he raced into it and slammed the door behind him, mind racing with events of the last few minutes.

He’d been wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong. It was a miscalculation, but with a far higher cost than he could have guessed. He was inured to punishment. His years at Durmstrang…and home…had made physical pain a fleeting thing that was no longer feared, He’d imagined he’d be punished for his outburst, and that perhaps the man would relent just a little and tell him what he wanted to know. He’d known that Harry Potter was capable of losing his calm demeanor and acting ‘the disciplinarian’. He’d also thought that the man’s basically gentle and retiring nature would make him more pliable and willing to speak afterwards. He hadn’t even imagined a disaster of this scale!

Harry Potter had looked utterly psychotic, almost crazed with rage and grief. Draco should have known better than to bait him. He should have done something different, anything, but he hadn’t. He pushed the man a little further and all hell had broken loose.

The instructors at Durmstrang had been cold and emotionless in their giving of pain, delivering punishment with a detached kind of amusement. The bitter, spiteful words and acts of his grandparents had been a calculated expression of their hatred and resentment. But…in the whole of his life so far, Draco had never seen a person so completely out of control…not even himself!

He’d ruined everything! His actions had been poorly chosen, even if he’d felt them justified. He’d wanted to know. It had been unbearable, to think that Harry Potter had simply let his parents die and then retired quietly to become a teacher. He’d had a right to those answers! It wasn’t…it wasn’t supposed to have happened like this!

The man had done it. It was certain. No one so overwrought could speak a complete falsehood so convincingly. It had to be true. He’d avenged the Malfoys, and had committed murder to do it. Harry Potter was a cold blooded killer, and was terrifying to behold in his wrath. Was that enraged face what Lord Voldemort had seen on his last day of life? Was that chilling look the one his parent’s killers had seen last?

It was so clear now. Harry Potter wasn’t a hero of legend, at perfect peace with his every act. He really was just a man, and one who hadn’t easily carried the scars of battle after decades. He was different…much different than Draco had ever imagined…and now it was over. There would be no teaching for him here. His actions had been unforgivable, and he’d touched off a rage that looked like it wouldn’t dim quickly.

He had to leave…he had to pack and get out now before worse happened. A series of counter spells opened his trunk, and Draco snatched at things about the room and flung them in. In the corner of the trunk was his solace, his guidance, his deliverance. He’d lost himself in its contents a thousand times when beset by stress and fear, and his hand itched for its pages now. Draco reached for the book.

His fingers had only brushed against it for a second when a sudden and seemingly random thought struck him. He simply knew something he hadn’t seen clearly before. It was important…overwhelmingly important. Harry Potter was ill! The man needed help and needed it now. The Headmistress would know what to do. He had to tell the Headmistress enough to make certain that she went to look for professor Potter. Immediately!

Draco pulled his hand from the trunk and shut it quickly, spelling it safely locked before he hurried down the hallway, headed for Minerva McGonagall’s office. He couldn’t have defined the source of his certainty that Harry Potter needed aid, but the all-consuming desire to deliver such a message was with him just the same.

\--------------------------------------------------

Harry waited until the sound of Draco’s heels was out of earshot. His hands were trembling violently, and his skull already ached with the feedback of adrenaline that couldn’t be vented. He was torn between a hunger to lash out at a world that had left him empty and hollow for so very long, and a terrible shame for his sudden violence against a teenaged boy. 

It wasn’t fair! Not that life had ever been fair to anyone in particular, but he’d tried so hard. He’d done the right things. Tried to be a decent and good person. He’d saved a world that had made him a hero before he was even of age, and it had nearly cost his life. He’d done it all willingly. Thrown himself into risk and pain. He’d done it with a smile some of the time, knowing what might come. He’d given the very best of himself for the benefit of others.

Then he’d found one brief, bright moment of happiness for himself. His and his alone. And then it was gone. All the decency and good in the world hadn’t bought him one small mercy. It was self indulgent to wallow in pity that way, but damn it all to hell, when had he ever indulged himself in any other way?

It hurt. Was a man weak or wrong because he just wanted to not hurt? Just for a little while? Just long enough to rest in black peace and silence, untroubled by dreams, nightmares and memories? Harry’s skull was pounding, and his muscles were aching with tension that he could barely contain. His breath was short, his chest felt tight and his vision was fuzzy at the edges. Potions be damned, he felt like hell.

He felt thirsty. Hollow and ready to be filled. He wanted a drink. Enough to blanket memories. Enough to stop hands that shook. Just enough to rest. There was a bottle. In the closet. Not a stash. It hadn’t been kept as a reserve. It was a gift, dust-coated and never opened. Aged thirty years in port casks. The kind of whiskey that cost a small fortune in Muggle currency. The stuff that would come out only to toast a wedding, a birth or a funeral. It was for joy and sorrow, and Harry had sorrow aplenty.

His feet were moving like an Inferi’s. Stumbling, sluggish and unsure. He was owed just a little comfort, wasn’t he? A moment’s respite. There, in the back, still wrapped. The bottle was beautiful, almost a work of art all its own. On hands and knees after pawing through the contents of the closet, Harry cradled the bottle delicately, blurry eyed and yet surreally hyper-conscious. 

A pull at the cork and its sweetness surrounded him. It smelled divine. Fire and smoke and sweet mash cooking long and well. The potions hadn’t been enough. They hadn’t taken away his dreams…or let him sleep the night in peace. He could rest when he was numb. This would take it all away. This would let him have peace.

By will alone, Harry warded the room and Floo, guaranteeing his privacy. He’d made his peace with what he was about to do. Harry closed his eyes and raised the bottle, only to feel it jerk to a halt halfway.

When he opened his eyes, a faint and misty form was before him, sad and resolute, one hand outstretched to stop the bottle and push it down. It wasn’t impossible, that a spirit presence could touch a material object so casually, but it was rare. Was it a vision? Was it his own ghoulish subconscious making a last bid to preserve his newly won sobriety?

Harry sat with mouth agape, tears trickling down a face that was haggard and expressionless, staring at the flickering form of his only love, dead almost two decades.

Draco’s mouth formed a single, silent word. Through the haze of grief and anger, even through blurred eyes and a mind bent by incredulity, it was still clear. It was a simple plea.

‘No.’

And then it flickered out, gone as quickly as it had appeared. Harry reached out too late to grab hold of some small part of the elusive image that had entranced him, only to find thin and empty air before him. When the bottle spilled from his hand and he scrabbled across hard flagstones in search of what was clearly gone, Harry snatched up the bottle and flung it into a wall, screaming incoherently, expelling the sum of his loss in howls that would have been deafening if anyone had been there to hear them.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Minerva McGonagall ordered the doors of her office to open, livid that anyone, much less young Draco Malfoy, would have the nerve to pound on them so while shouting inelegantly from the hall. The young man rushed into the office in a complete frenzy, while Minerva attempted to retain her usual crisp and stolid dignity.

“What, precisely, do you think you’re doing, banging on the-”

“Professor Potter needs help! NOW! In his classroom! He’s sick and he needs help! You have to go there!”

“A moment please…and your silence.” Minerva cast her Patronus with a careful incantation, willing it to deliver a message along with it’s appearance. It would notify John Prewett of the matter, instructing him to meet her at the DADA classroom. 

“Very well. Help is on its way. You may follow me while you explain your abominable conduct! I’ve already heard of your outburst today. Inexcusable. Not to mention-”

“NO! You need to hurry! We should use the Floo! He needs help now, damn it!”

“YOUNG MAN! That will be the last of that tone you use with me! Your time here at Hogwarts is at an end!”

“I don’t care about that! Please! You have to hurry! I’ll leave if you want, but you have to help him…now!”

There was nothing feigned or ingenuous in the boy’s tone or look, and in fact, he appeared to border on desperation. Minerva made a mental note to chastise him later, before expelling him, but gave in largely out of concern for Harry. Minerva moved toward the Floo.

“Fine! Let’s…blast it! He’s warded his office. We’ll have to Floo into the one next to it. Listen closely to what I say, and follow after me.”

Draco nodded silently, listening intently as Minerva McGonagall intoned the classroom by name and floor, watching as she disappeared in a puff of green flame. A moment later, Draco clambered into the Floo and flung the powder to the floor, calling out the same precise destination.

He stumbled out of the Floo into a classroom he hadn’t been in before, and followed Minerva’s hurried form through the door and around the hall, ultimately stopping at the entrance to Harry’s office. The Headmistress was already uttering a spell in the direction of the door, wand flicking sharply with irritation.

“Harry’s usual good work. I’ll need help to break these…I’ll have to summon-”

Draco had already recognized the type and feel of the wards, and reached a hand out toward them.

“What do you think you’re doing?! Those could-” Minerva’s outburst was cut off by Draco’s muted and vague reply. It was so matter of fact and quiet that it carried a weird air of authority.

“Harm me? They’re standard Repulsers. They’ll sting, and they hurt if you come at them forcefully, but they aren’t fatal. He would never risk hurting students.”

“Of course not! And that’s as may be, but-”

“I can walk through them…if I go slowly enough. If you don’t use force they respond less. I’m going in. He needs help now, not when everyone arrives. I might be able to get him to take down the wards if he’s conscious, or at least break them on my own if I have to. Either way, I’m going in.”

Minerva’s first concern was Harry. She’d genuinely believed that the man could handle more than he imagined, and it had shaken her quite badly to think that he might genuinely be ill. If Malfoy believed he could handle walking through painful wards, then he could try if he liked. The worst that could happen would be his failure, and others would come soon enough. There was still the chance that he might succeed, and even the best wards were more vulnerable from the inside. It was worth it.

“Do it then…if you can. Find him, and break the wards if you must. I’ll summon others in the meantime.”

Minerva’s wand cast a string of Patronus charms, sending silver shapes dashing down the halls, while Draco reached forward nervously with both hands…and pushed ever so slightly.

Ward-fire crackled along his nerves, leaving his entire body feeling as if he had just touched a Muggle electrical wire. He wasn’t pushing hard, but rather making himself a dead weight, limp and boneless, almost falling into the wards by accident. Where the wards touched his skin, the energy burned brief and bright, tingling violently like pins and needles on a grand scale. Wildly uncomfortable, but easily survivable.

Pain was nothing to be afraid of. The instructors’ whips and switches at Durmstrang had hurt far worse than this. Pain could be endured, failure…that was unacceptable. If he could accomplish nothing else, Draco could make some small amends for what he’d caused.

He didn’t dare say it aloud yet, but he knew instinctively that this was entirely his own fault. What he had done in his hunger for answers had touched off more than he’d conceived of as possible. His instincts screamed that Harry Potter needed help, and he would help without question now. The man avenged a family that others had scorned…at the cost of his career…and a lot more besides. That priceless gift would not go unacknowledged, and so Draco gritted his teeth, skin on fire with the energy of the wards, and slid further forward still.

And then he was through.

 

TBC!!!


	20. Timely Interventions

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 20: Timely Interventions

 

Draco had passed through the wards in front of the door, and reached for the handle quickly, ignoring the lingering discomfort about his skin. He opened the door quickly and stepped into the room, and at first sight, Harry was no where to be seen.

The air of the room carried the scent of whiskey. A feeling of great tension and sorrow hung in the air itself. So still and quiet. Draco felt the hair on his neck rise…and then he saw a foot, on the floor, behind the desk. He’d meant to hurry, and he knew he ought to, but inexperience and fright slowed him. He crept forward, calling out to let the professor know he was here.

“Professor? Are you…are you alright? Professor? Sir?”

There was nothing…no response at all. He’d expected something different. A man in distress demanding aloneness. Outrage at this intrusion. Not this. Draco took a few steps more, each painfully slow, and took in the spectacle before him.

A bottle had been shattered against the wall, and the scent of whiskey was heavy in the air. The contents of the closet had been pulled out in an ungainly pile, and Harry Potter was slumped on the floor, on his back, staring at the ceiling, eyes vacant and lips moving ever so faintly.

Draco knelt beside the man, relieved that he seemed to be conscious after all, but when he spoke there was no answer.

“Sir? Sir! You need to let the wards down. You…you need help. They can’t come in if you don’t let the wards down. Please! Can you hear me?”

There was no sign of his presence even being acknowledged, and Draco panicked a second before wresting control of himself. They shouldn’t find him like this. Tear-stained and rumpled, whiskey and shattered glass everywhere. He deserved better than this. The wards could be dealt with in a moment, but he could salvage a shred of the man’s dignity right now.

A few spells and there was no trace of anything but the mysterious collapse of the professor. That would have to suffice. All that was left was to open the wards or break them entirely. It could be done…but…but for the feelings that overcame him, staring at the man on the floor.

Something weird and ethereal fluttered through him, raising even the downy hairs on Draco’s arm. He felt dizzy, odd, and vaguely like a passenger in his own body. He was speaking without thinking, leaning closer to Harry. He took the lean and handsome face into his hands, frightened by the intensity of sensation that came with touching another person in such a familiar way, but Harry gave no sign of consciousness still.

“Harry. You can hear me, can’t you?”

He’d just called the professor by his given name! It was an unthinkable act of familiarity. He hadn’t the right to do such a thing, even if the name had rolled across his palate many times in private, like an experiment to test it’s feel and flow. Harry. It felt weirdly natural to call him that.

“I know, love. It hurts…and I understand. You have to wake up. Let the wards down, Harry. There are people who love you out there. You need their help. If you love me, you’ll know what I’d want you to do. Let them help you, Harry. I…I love you.”

The man on the floor gasped deeply, eyes slipping back into focus only for a second, fixing on the warm and yet frightened gray eyes just inches above him, then tilted his neck ever so slightly, just as Draco leaned that last measure closer, his mouth meeting Harry’s as gently as could be.

Inside his mind, Draco railed against the temerity of what he’d just done! It was an even more shocking breach of protocol than he’d dared before…and whatever his personal thoughts on the subject might have been, this was playing with fire on an epic scale.

But the lips against his own worked softly, weakly and yet hungrily, like a sleepy infant’s blind quest for sustenance, driven by an internal need that easily overrode all obstacles. It was warm and smotheringly close, stealing reason and even the desire to resist out of shock and fear. It soothed like a healing balm upon flesh that had been seared and scorched, screaming for relief, and Draco gave in to that heady warmth and peace.

The wards slid away, and he could feel the magic lessening around him even as he came back to himself, taking control of his actions once more and pulling himself away from Harry…the professor. His mentor!

As the sledgehammer sense of realization hit Draco, Harry sighed deeply, going utterly limp once again and flopping onto the floor as boneless as an eel. Tears trickled faintly down the man’s cheeks, and only Draco heard the last whisper on Harry’s breath, as others dashed into the room.

“Draco…love…you.”

Draco himself was quickly brushed aside as Minerva McGonagall, Ron Weasley and John Prewett moved in, variously muttering spells of healing and other enchantments. Harry Potter’s limp body floated into the air, magically towed along behind Master Prewett while Draco numbly shuffled after, catching tidbits of the conversation as they went.

Some parts resonated, clear in his ears while he fumbled with his own thoughts in silence. Catatonia. Grief. Stress. Withdrawal. Dreams. He heard them, spoken despite his presence, which was ignored by all concerned while they made their way to the infirmary.

’I did this. To him. I did this. He never forgot. Never let go of any of it. I ripped that from him. He’s broken. I broke him. I never meant…I…’

They’d reached the infirmary doors, though Draco couldn’t recall most of the journey. He came back to himself only because Ron Weasley was looming before him, closing the doors after MacGonagall, Prewett and Harry Potter were through, blocking Draco’s way.

“I need to…I have to be…”

“You need to be shutting the hell up! I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but I’d bet my cotton socks that you’re right at the core of this! You’re a Malfoy right down to your bones, and there’s never been a one of them that brought anything but trouble with them. If you’ve any idea what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my sight in a hurry, and stay that way until you’re called for! Got it!”

Draco felt the faint flutter of outrage, familiar and comforting, then felt it slide away. He felt hollow, weak and tired, fading adrenaline having sapped the last of his strength from him. The scorn should have meant nothing, but it mirrored his own worst fears. He was the one who’d pushed too hard, too fast, in all the wrong ways. He’d brought all of this about. Harry Potter was in the infirmary, and it might as well have been his own doing.

Draco didn’t even answer. Shoulders slumped and mind numb from too many thoughts, he turned and wandered down the hallway in silence. He could hear the infirmary doors open and close again behind him.

No one else knew what Harry had said before he passed out again. None of them would have understood it. ’He wasn’t thinking of me. He never forgot. None of it. He still misses…’

The kiss. What a marvelous irony. A stolen moment, tasting what so many had dreamed of, and yet knowing utterly that he could never be the object of that kind of adoration. No one…no one would ever look at him that way…not with complete devotion in their hearts and burning in their eyes. On fire with need even after decades. That moment had been stolen…but it had been so good.

Students passed him in the halls, and he ignored them, as well as the whispers that followed. The duel. Word had spread of what he’d done…the way he’d disgraced himself. All that he’d imagined was possible here was in ruins. He’d destroyed it all. It was too much to absorb. More real than he could process. He wanted his room…and his book. He always felt better when he had his book. More than a few times he’d slept with it close, letting the ambiance of comfort surround him pleasantly, warding off dreams that threatened to turn dark.

His room was as he’d left it, but it had no warmth. He’d have to leave here…and soon. He’d dueled a professor, spoken crossly to the headmistress. There would be no forgiveness for such things. His things would have to be packed. He would go back to that dreadful manor…huge and empty, save for the elves that maintained it against his return, just as they had for years and years.

He’d spent less than two weeks at the manor before he’d come to Hogwarts. It had been hellish. He’d always been alone…really…but not like that. Not physically the only human present. Not that he liked most people all that much, but they were always around. And then he was alone, listening to his own footfalls in long hallways and dining at a table that could seat fifty, but was set for only one. He’d never felt so intimidated by a place in his entire life. The thought of going back there made his stomach flip. He wanted his book.

His miracle. His salvation. Everything he’d endured had become bearable when he’d found it. Every feeling and thought he’d ever cursed himself for had become right and fair and good. It hadn’t left his side since his third year at Durmstrang, and even in that place it had been his constant lifeline to sanity.

The locks and wards were quickly spelled away, and Draco quietly plucked his book from the chest, fingering the binding and the gold that protected the corners. Utterly empty and exhausted, he felt alive when he held this. More was possible when it was near. There were things that could be believed in, that were real and true when it was present. In its pages he’d seen a world that was possible…but which had eluded the grasp of another by the slimmest of margins. Here he could find solace. Here, he was understood.

Draco took the book and sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning back against the frame, letting the vague and ill-defined sense of peace wash over him. It wasn’t enough. He would have to pack, and he would have to leave. There was no place for him here anymore. At least he wasn’t headed for Durmstrang or France. Even that vast and empty manor was better than either of those fates. 

Draco closed his eyes and felt the faint moisture of tears at the corners, hating the heat of his own face and the breaths that came hard while he struggled to maintain his self control. Crying accomplished nothing. It was the fallback of weaklings and cowards. ‘Mama’s boys’ wept, but Durmstrang graduates did not! Slow breathing and hardened thoughts pushed the tears back. What could not be cured must be endured. He would pack and go before they made it the worse for him by shaming him publicly as some final insult. 

He’d only plucked a few things from the room and placed them in the trunk, when Draco heard the firm knock at the door. He quickly dropped the book into his trunk and spelled it shut for safety, then hurriedly composed himself before answering. They’d certainly hurried in tracking him down. If it was to be, then so be it. He’d hear their condemnations before he left after all, but at least he might cadge some knowledge of Harry Potter’s condition from them before he left. He had nothing to bargain with but the sincerity of his intentions, and that would have to be enough.

To Draco’s surprise, the man waiting in the hall was not the Headmistress or her assistant, but the stout, balding and bespectacled Master Prewett. The professor had to be alright if this man was here already! It was a small relief, but it was something. Still, the elderly gentleman looked shrewd and more than a little cross, and whatever was to come of this meeting would likely be…unpleasant…to say the least.

“Master Prewett. Is…is he…?”

“Resting comfortably? Yes. He’s had a bad patch of it, though, despite all our best efforts.”

There was a subtlety about the old man, wistful and curious, and yet his eyes held no sign of hostility. Just vague impatience. Prewett kept his silence and waited, prompting Draco to say something.

“I…I understand. It’s…I upset him. The duel…and some things I said…after. I’m…I am responsible for this. I am leaving Hogwarts. I have no right to be here. I want to see…him…before I go. I‘m just…glad he‘s alright.”

The quiet little man sidestepped Draco and strolled into the room, pacing softly on the rugs with his hands behind his back. Draco closed the door, prepared for a tirade or a lecture, and turned to face the music.

“No. You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Malfoy.”

“What? What do you mean? Am I to be arrested?”

“No…not at all! You’re a student here, and before we’re through, you might WISH you’d been expelled, but if you wish to remain on these grounds, even if it’s only to assure yourself of Professor Potter’s well being, then you will remain a student here and be punished accordingly. That’s the deal, take it or leave it. Expulsion and immediate departure, or remain a student and accept whatever punishment is deemed fit. It’s in your hands now.”

“Why…why are you telling me this? Shouldn’t you…”

“Be tending to Harry Potter? He’s stable now. Overtaxed, exhausted, and sleeping like a log under potions so powerful that he’ll get the rest he needs no matter what. I asked to be the one to speak to you. The Headmistress gave me her approval…and here I am. But this conversation has a point. I need your answer now! Unconditionally. Will you accept whatever punishment is dealt you, in exchange for the right to remain a student here, or will you leave? No more questions! Answer me!”

A heaven sent gift? What was it about this place and these people? The unthinkable became everyday here! There had to be a catch, but did it matter? What price to see Harry Potter well? To make amends? To learn from a Centaur, and from Hermione Granger-Weasley? There was no negotiating in a position like this. He was being granted a nearly miraculous chance to stay…and he grabbed it before it could be taken from him.

“Yes! Whatever you want! I want to stay. I’ll make it right…I swear it! I’ll do whatever they ask. Thank you! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Thank you.”

John Prewett raised a fluffy white eyebrow above the rim of his spectacles and smiled, but the humor in that smile was muted.

“You should be very careful what you give thanks for, young man. You may not have such a cheery tone after your punishment has been decided, but we’ll see. I still think you’ve made the right choice, or at the least, the braver of the two. And now we need to have a very serious talk.”

Something in the elderly gentleman’s tone left no room for disagreement, and Draco suddenly felt a tremor of uncertainty. It was entirely possible that, no matter what he’d endured at Durmstrang, punishment here might be worse in its own way than any whip or strap could ever hope to be! What, exactly, had he just agreed to?

TBC!!!


	21. Cruel And Unusual Punishment

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 21: Cruel And Unusual Punishment

 

There was a small table for dining in Draco’s suite, one of the amenities for guests of the school that chose to take their meals in private. John Prewett motioned for Draco to take a seat, and moved to the opposite side of the table for a seat of his own, removing and polishing his glasses before he spoke, letting Draco sit in nervous and apprehensive silence all the while.

‘What have I agreed to? What do they want of me? How bad can it be? I want…I want to stay…but if it’s worse than Durmstrang…no…it can’t be worse than that. They aren’t like that here. Harry said so. It has to be true. They’ll want an apology…and some kind of service…but nothing…horrible. I hope.’

“Ahem. Well, there, nothing like properly cleaned lenses, is there? I try not to look at the world through thumb-print tinted lenses. I much prefer a rose tint, myself. Let me be succinct. Mr. Malfoy…I want you to explain to me, from your perspective, the reasons for today’s debacle. I’ve heard some fairly serious accusations, and the Headmistress, quite frankly, is too upset to treat this matter fairly. I asked to arbitrate this matter, and she granted my request. This began with a dispute between you and professor Potter, didn’t it? Explain it to me, and let me be clear about one thing…I expect candor on your part. Anything less will be…unsatisfactory.”

The word unsatisfactory sounded vaguely like the lid of a coffin slamming shut. Draco calmed himself, suddenly feeling incredible apprehension. He didn’t know this man at all. He hadn’t wanted to share his thoughts with anyone…except…well…perhaps Harry Potter. Sharing anything essentially personal with a stranger was just horrifying. If he was to have any hope of remaining here, he’d simply have to deal with it. Some quarter had to be given. He wouldn’t lie…but as long as the right questions weren’t asked…he could choose carefully what he said. That would have to be the way of it. He composed himself carefully, and began.

“Master Prewett…this is…my responsibility. I brought all of this about, and not…not purposefully, but I’m willing to do what I have to…if I can make this right. I asked him, the professor, about my parents…last night. He was the lead Auror on the case. The case was closed with no arrests. He wouldn’t talk about it. He wouldn’t tell me anything. I…I lost my temper, and then returned to my rooms in a rage.

When I came to his class today, I deliberately baited him into a duel. That part was purposeful. I didn’t hurt anyone. I just used a spell against a student that hadn’t been specified. I disarmed a few other students and issued a challenge when the professor interrupted. I insulted him…publicly…to make him fight me. I wanted…I thought that…even if I lost…he would relent and tell me something about my parents. I thought he abandoned the case before leaving the Auror service. I wanted to win the duel, punish him for letting the people who killed my parents get away, but I really didn’t care either way. I just…I wanted to do something…anything.

I lost the duel. He was…he was incredible. My instructors at Durmstrang were ham-fisted apes next to what he did. I tried everything I knew, but I was lucky just to land one spell on him. His reputation…is deserved. After…he ordered me to his office. I…”

Draco trailed off, cheeks flaming. Should he admit that he’d stripped his robe and shirt, expecting punishment like Durmstrang? Even if he should confess it, it was embarrassing in the extreme. John Prewett was still listening quietly, his hands together on the table, an expression of interest on his face.

“And then? What happened in the office, Mr. Malfoy? Or do you prefer Draco?”

The question flustered him, and he snapped out an answer quickly.

“Either is fine…it doesn’t matter! I…sir? How much…of this is…in confidence? Would anyone else know?”

“Draco…I think we can agree that this depends on what you say. If it has relevance to the Headmistress or staff, then it will likely be shared with them. If it hasn’t any relevance, then I can offer a measure of privacy, but it depends entirely on what you say. I can only promise that I’ll listen without bias, and make my decisions after you’ve answered any questions I may have.”

“I see.” There was nothing for it but to plunge ahead. Draco’s eyes flicked to the table. “Master Prewett…at Durmstrang, when I crossed a professor, I would be sent to their office to wait for a whipping. Or sometimes switch or a strap was used. It depended on the teacher. I thought…I thought that was normal. I waited in professor Potter’s office…but I took off my robes and shirt, and waited at his desk. I thought I’d be whipped, like before, and I thought that because he was a very kind person, he would tell me about my parents afterwards…because…”

“Because you thought he’d feel guilt about doing something like that? That’s an unusual approach. Willing to take a beating just to lay the groundwork for a conversation? You don’t fear pain very much, do you? I wouldn’t set myself up for a whipping if I could possibly help it. Would you explain that for me before you continue?”

“I was…punished…often…at Durmstrang. I learned to not care. Pain fades in time. Pride is all we have…sometimes. I did not let them think they’d won. When I was treated unjustly, I did not sit in silence. I paid whatever price I had to pay in exchange to humiliate them with the truth.”

Draco clenched his jaw visibly for the first time while speaking. John Prewett knew a raw nerve when he saw one, and shifted the conversation accordingly.

“Very well. I accept that. It seems a pity that you thought we’d condone such a treatment of students here. Corporal punishment was abolished at Hogwarts many, many years ago. Hasn’t been used since the days of Headmaster Dippet. Please continue. What happened between you and professor Potter?”

“He came into the office…and he was furious. He ordered me to put my clothes back on. Once I was dressed, he started yelling about what I’d done. He was going to expel me…I think. He said he couldn’t teach me. I thought I’d be leaving here anyway, so I risked saying what I felt.

I…I accused him openly of being a coward…of abandoning my parent’s case as an Auror and quitting the service instead of finding their killers. I was yelling when he grabbed me by the throat. He looked like he could kill. I couldn’t break his grip, and…and he threw me to the ground and ordered me out of the room…and out of the school.”

“Wait. I get the distinct impression that you’re glossing over something here. Did Harry say anything to you? Did he answer your questions about your parents?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed with irritation. Prewett possessed an intuition that was uncanny, and evading uncomfortable questions would be harder than he’d imagined.

“What he said was mine to hear. It wouldn’t help anything or anyone to repeat it. He answered my questions, then threw me to the ground. I ran away when he ordered me to leave.”

“Draco…this is very important. What did he tell you about your parent’s case? If it makes a difference to you, I can only say that I have become familiar with a number of things that professor Potter alone knew about the case. What I want to know…is what you know.”

Draco dug in his heels, face flaming. “If he didn’t want it spoken of…I can’t…I wouldn’t betray his confidence. He spoke in haste. He was angry. Please don’t ask me to do anything that might hurt him further.”

“That’s an admirable sentiment. I see I’ll have to put my cards on the table. Draco, I’ve been privy to the history of that case. I count myself very fortunate that Harry Potter trusted me with these things. I know what happened to your parent’s killers. I also know why. Tell me what Harry said, and I promise you that if the information would harm him, I’ll keep it in confidence. On that, you have my sworn word.”

The sigh that came was expansive. The stress of the day had already been overwhelming. Draco folded, holding his head in hands and rubbing his temples.

“I…I know what happened. He told me then. He killed them…the ones who did it. It was covered up to protect him. He…he was…very close…to my father. More than others thought. He never forgot. I made him have to remember all of it, and it made him sick. I shouldn’t have…I never meant to…to make him ill! You have to believe me! I didn’t want this! I just wanted to know!”

Draco had gotten more than a little hysterical, flushed and a little ragged and wild about the eyes. Much of the days events were coming back to him clearly, and while he’d been stalwart when he had a purpose to fulfill, now he was panicky, exhausted and nerve-wracked. John Prewett calmly changed the subject.

“I know, lad. All of it. It’s alright. You didn’t know until he told you…that he’d done those things. You weren’t supposed to know. What you did was wrong…but understandable, given your conclusions about those times. Just let me say that, though you’ve acted rashly, and complicated matters a bit, these things aren’t your fault at all. 

“Professor Potter’s illness might easily have been avoided if we’d been able to act sooner. The choice to hide the seriousness of his condition was his and his alone. A lot of people who thought they knew him well missed the small signs of this coming, and even my interference wasn’t enough to prevent this. Some of it even lies on my account. Very little of this falls to you. I know you’re upset, but there is a little more we’ve yet to cover. Can you handle this?”

The sting to his pride, hearing it implied that he was distressed, prodded Draco back to sense.

“Yes…I can…I can handle this.”

“Tell me then…what happened after you left the office? Why did you summon the Headmistress? You didn’t mention Harry collapsing on the spot…so what prompted you to seek out help?”

“It was a feeling. I could tell he wasn’t well. You didn’t see him…what he was like. I thought he’d gone insane. When I stopped running, I knew I shouldn’t have let him alone like that…even if he wanted me to leave. He wasn’t well…but I didn’t know what else to do. I went to the Headmistress and demanded that she seek him out. It…it made sense then. I just acted…there wasn’t time for thought.”

Prewett nodded calmly. “But you did walk through the wards to help him when the two of you arrived. Not being afraid of pain has its benefits. They weren’t harmful wards, but they were very thorough and likely very uncomfortable. That was an exceptional thing to do. I hadn’t realized, until today, that professor Potter’s well being was such a concern to you.”

Draco’s look was one of pure shock and embarrassment. “It..it was nothing of the sort! It was my responsibility! I wronged him…I had to make up for it. I’m not afraid of wards like those…so it wasn’t that bad. Would you have done any less to help him?”

Prewett chuckled. “I’m afraid that, while I’m a fit fellow for my years, I’d have been in no shape for healing after crossing those wards! Where angels fear to tread, as they say! Perhaps you think it nothing, but I assure you of this, young man…the Headmistress is still vexed with you, and professor Weasley is most irate, but the reason we’re speaking now is entirely because you put yourself in harm’s way and through some painful trouble, without a second thought, just to get professor Potter to let down those wards. Such selfless acts aren’t to be trivialized. Without them, you’d have been expelled without question.

Now…tell me what passed between you and professor Potter when you entered the office. How did you find him? In what condition? How is it that you got him to let the wards down?”

Alarm flared in Draco’s mind. This was dangerously close to the truth of things, truths he was woefully unprepared to share, and had barely had time to glimpse himself.

“He was unconscious…behind the desk. I can’t remember what I said. I…I panicked…seeing him…like that. I didn’t know what to do. I just…I know I was trying to tell him to wake up…to drop the wards…and he opened his eyes for a second, then sighed and dropped the wards.”

“You’re sure there was nothing more? Nothing that comes to mind? Any details might help me to help Harry, once he wakes. Even details that you might think trivial.”

Draco folded again, this time too shaken to resist. “He’d been sick. There…there was a bottle…broken. I spelled away the mess before others saw it. He wouldn’t…want to be seen like that. And…he didn’t do anything wrong…he didn’t know who I was. He…when I spoke to him…I was very close. He opened his eyes and…and he kissed me. I didn’t do anything because…because I didn’t want to upset him. He didn’t mean to…you have to understand! Something like that…people would think…things. He thought…he thought I was someone else. Don’t tell anyone! Please! Whatever you ask of me…I’ll do it…just…don’t let them think ill of him.”

“Needn’t worry for that, my boy. There’s no one here who wishes ill on Harry Potter. It might be of some comfort to you to know that he’ll be getting the rest he needs for awhile. Professor Potter will be fine, at least for now. We tried not to use potions that would incapacitate him, or he’d have been better rested all along, but since we have no choice, I’ve administered Dreamless Sleep, along with a few sovereign soporifics that are too powerful for regular use. I can keep certain parts of our conversation entirely private, most particularly, the portions that would affect the two of you the most.

And as for you…I think it’s time we discuss a suitable disciplinary action for your conduct. Mr. Malfoy, are you prepared to accept whatever judgment I render?”

It was infuriating, having this held over him this way, but Draco nodded quietly. The old man had agreed to hold Harry’s secrets, and he seemed kindly enough, or at least uninterested in personal gain. It would have to be enough. If he was to stay, this was the cost, and he would pay it.

“Very well. First and foremost, you will attend counseling sessions with me, three times a week, until such time as I deem fit to reduce them, or until the end of the school term and your departure from Hogwarts. I deem this necessary because you have shown a dangerous lack of judgment on your own, and an inability to resolve conflicts without resorting to unacceptable measures, the results of which are already clear to you now.

Second, you will apologize before the class that witnessed the duel, sincerely, and in detail. I will see the written version of the apology before it is given, and approve it or amend it as I see fit. I will also oversee it being made to that class. You will also apologize to the Headmistress, and to Harry Potter, if and when he feels ready to see you and hear your apology himself.

Lastly, since professor Potter will require considerable rest, and this is the first year since his start that he has been ill, Hogwarts is ill prepared to replace him on short notice. At the moment, it appears that professor Ron Weasley, a veteran of the war alongside professor Potter, will be teaching as a substitute in the interim, until I feel that Mr. Potter is ready to return to his duties.

You, Mr. Malfoy, will be his assistant and teacher’s aide. Hopefully you’ll take the opportunity to learn a little more about responsibility once you’ve had some regarding others. That is my judgment. Think on it, and see me first thing in the morning. Good night, Mr. Malfoy. Take your rest…you’ll need it.”

John Prewett stood to leave, and Draco sat in gob-smacked horror while the man headed for the door. He composed himself as the door creaked open and turned to the departing gentleman.

“You…you can’t…you can’t be serious. You just…I can’t…”

“On the contrary, my dear boy! I can…and you can…and I just did! I could have put some effort into coming up with much, much worse, but I think that will suffice. In case you’re wondering, I’ve already had some heated words with professor Weasley, and he’ll be a bit better behaved the next time you see him…he was unnecessarily harsh today, and he knows it. Oh…and about tomorrow morning…I wake at five am. See me at six…remember what I said about needing your rest?”

Draco slumped helplessly into his chair, horrified past the point of speech or even wordless protest. Public apologies? Counseling? Talking about…what? About himself? He didn’t want to talk about himself! And Ron Weasley!!! Hero or no, the man was a detestable ogre!

But what else could he do? Leave? Turn tail and run like a coward? It was one thing to go if he’d been expelled, it was another to admit defeat and quit in ignominy. His pride had sustained him through seemingly endless beatings, in Durmstrang and before. He had never once surrendered in the face of a challenge. Never. But then…he’d never faced one so…intimate…so sticky and full of pitfalls of the self. 

What was to be done? Draco sat, in chair, and later, silent, in bed, mulling over every angle and possibility, and flickering through the day that had passed. 

And when he closed he closed his eyes, his last thoughts were only of that kiss, sweet and stolen, unutterably wrong…and yet…ineffably…sublime.

TBC!!!


	22. Facing Ugly Realities

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 22: Facing Ugly Realities

 

Draco was traditionally an early riser, owing to a lifetime of strict discipline, both in the home of his grandparents and at Durmstrang, but he hadn’t had to rise much earlier than other students here in weeks. Frankly, he was worn out and more than a little shaky from the events of the previous day, and rising before dawn to meet Master Prewett was just enough to leave him seriously wan and sluggish.

’He’s insane. It must be senility. He really expects me to work along side that thuggish dolt! I’ll probably have to stand in a corner and just wince all day while he mangles spell after spell. It won’t work. I’ll do it…but it just won’t work!’

Ron Weasley might be a professor, but he was an instructor for Flight and a Quidditch referee. Sure, the man had survived the war against Voldemort, but Harry Potter had been the final cause of victory…no one else had played such an important role. There was nothing to be learned from slogging along in the class of some ham-fisted lackwit who’d tagged along years ago and managed to live in spite of himself! That was his punishment?! A complete absence of real learning!

Well…that and those insipid apologies. There was only one person he really wanted to speak to, and that was Harry Potter himself. The only real motivation he had for this early morning visit was the possibility of learning about the professor’s condition. There were…things…that he wanted to speak of…if he would be allowed to. The man deserved an apology. It was horrifying to think that he’d been the root of such a complete collapse. The man had seemed edgy and sometimes intemperate, but never…never vulnerable. Not like that.

It was easy…one supposed, to imagine a hero as perfect. Easier, too, if one had learned so much of him in the way that Draco had. It was disconcerting…seeing himself suddenly as a deluded boy. Draco was older in some ways than his few years suggested, and it rarely showed but when he lost his temper. The idea of having been naïve…made Draco shudder. Harry wasn’t all powerful, or perfect, or some kind of living saint. He was just a person who had endured, hanging on by a fingernail’s grace, scrabbling along in life like anyone else, until a stupid boy had pushed him too far on the one and only subject that could have hurt him the most.

’I…I didn’t once think of him. How he felt. I just…I wanted answers. I never thought…I thought he’d be alright…after so long. Healthy at least. Sane. How can I make any of them understand? I never wanted this…for him.’

Too many heavy thoughts. Too sobering for an early morning. He still didn’t have apologies written for anyone. He hoped that Prewett would be reasonable about the timing. It might take awhile to work out something that would be acceptable without being utterly humiliating.

The infirmary doors were never locked during the school year, and Draco paused only a moment before opening one and stepping in. He was invited and expected, so there was no need to knock like some timid titmouse. Strange. He’d never concerned himself with such a trivial thing…until Harry had made it clear that privacy was a thing to be respected. It was something of an alien concept for Draco. He’d never really had any…except for the trunk that held his possessions. 

It was…it was always about other people. Thinking about them…at least a little…as if they mattered. Did they matter? They shouldn’t have…or didn’t…except…except for Harry. Now at every turn he was pushed to think more and more about people that should have had little relevance to him. The sticky, frightening world of emotions and feelings. Certainly he had those things as well, but in Draco’s mind, they were things to be rigidly contained and controlled, never permitted to demonstrate one’s own weakness in front of others.

’Merlin. When…when he kissed me…I knew it wasn’t me he wanted. Who would? Why would they? It still…it felt so good. If I could be…those things he wanted me to be…to other people, maybe…I could have that…someday. With someone. Would they look at me differently? Have they all been right? Is it always me…my fault? Have I always been blind…and only now been given eyes? There has to be a way…to get this right…’

“Ahh! Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Care for a cup of tea before breakfast?”

John Prewett had emerged from the long hall of beds in darkness, the dim light from his chambers behind him.

“Yes, sir. That would be…alright. Please, is the professor better?”

John Prewett let Draco follow in his wake, answering convivially as they walked into his suite and made use of the table and chairs there.

“Harry is quite stable. Exhausted and still sleeping, but stable. I checked right after I woke. I expect the potions will wear off sometime late this afternoon, but if you’re wondering, he hasn’t been awake yet. It’s just as well. Rest is what he needs most…as well as a prolonged absence of stress. I’ll be ensuring that for awhile.

“I think I owe him an apology of my own as well. I’ve been wrong more than a few times in my life, less so these days than when I was a younger man, but it seems to me that we all overestimated his strength. He’ll need all the rest he can get, and I’ll be making sure he gets it. Can’t say yet how long that will be though. Good thing we have some sound replacements ready and waiting to teach Defense Against The Dark Arts, isn’t it?”

Draco bit his tongue. It didn’t seem likely that he’d gain any ground by offering complaints. Prewett really didn’t seem like the type to back down without just cause, and Draco had agreed to any punishment Hogwarts mandated for him. He wasn’t prepared to look a coward after having been given a remarkable chance to set things right…no matter how daunting the task in front of him might be.

“Sir…about that. I’m ready. Just…are you sure this is a good idea? I’m willing to do whatever is asked of me…but I don’t think I can help teach a class effectively. If you say I should try, I’ll try, but I don’t want to do more harm than good. Please believe that.”

John Prewett chuckled over the rim of his tea cup, eyes twinkling far too merrily for this time of morning.

“Come now…I have more faith in you than that. Besides…I told you…I spoke with Professor Weasley…at length, before I even saw you yesterday. Your part in this will be to assist him in coaching Harry’s students through their learning, and to make the sudden transition easier for him. It might encourage you a little to know that, while he isn’t any more amused by this idea than you are, he relented after it became clear that you put yourself through those wards just to help Professor Potter. Whatever you might think of Professor Weasley, he isn’t without a keen mind all his own. Try a round of wizard chess against him if you don’t believe me. I haven’t won against him since he was just a boy.”

“Alright. I’ll give it my best. When do you want me to make my apologies? I haven’t anything ready yet, but I will…as soon as I have a moment I can spare to put some thought behind them.”

“I’d prefer them made in the next day or two. Tomorrow if you can, the day after if you can’t. You can see me first thing in the morning as soon as you have them done. It’s very quiet here and I’ve plenty of time to go over them with you. Now…about your counseling with me.”

“Yes?” Draco pulled a face, dreading even surface level conversation about his personal thoughts. Far too many of them were just that…personal…and very much so! Discussing them was…well…it couldn’t be out of the question, since he had to agree to it, but it would intensely unpleasant. There had to be a way to keep at least a few things as his own business!

“I’ve already drafted a short list of meeting times for them. Three days a week, as I said, and they’ve been set to make sure you don’t miss any of your classes. I think it’s reasonably fair to warn you…I’m attending a meeting today with the rest of the staff of Hogwarts. We’ll be discussing Professor Potter’s absence, for one thing, and I’m sure we’ll be discussing you as well. Let me be entirely frank. My intervention yesterday guaranteed your chance to remain here. Not everyone feels as I do, but Harry did.”

“Wait…what? He spoke to you? About me?”

“Yes. On several occasions, sometimes with great indignation and irritation, but never without an underlying belief in your potential. You’re not a child, and you aren’t a traditional student here, so I feel no particular compunction about treating you as an adult…if fact, I suspect it’s overdue.

“You’re quite the topic of conversation around here, with your inclination toward stoicism and your moody silences. The self imposed isolation, the sudden fits of temperament that curiously seem to erupt precisely when you want to see someone else drop their guard. The prevailing opinion is that you’re a spoiled brat and that it’s much too late to do anything about it. I, having listened to the opinion of someone who thinks fairly highly of you, suspect otherwise. Don’t think that this will purchase you any favors, but if it means anything to you, I’ll be listening to you with an open mind, because I personally think Harry was right.

I can tell that Harry’s opinion means more than just a little to you, and I can vouch for this…if you want to make the nay-sayers and doom-speakers eat their words, then don’t try to waltz through these punishments with half efforts and sneers of insincerity. Mean it. Make it real. You’re not being denied opportunities, you’re being granted them…grab hold of them and use them, or your time here really will have been wasted.

Your first session is at the start of the coming week. That’ll give a little time for you to get used to the change of routine. Come with the intention of helping yourself, and understand that this isn’t about picking you apart for anyone’s amusement…it’s about helping you help yourself. Are we understood?”

Draco’s tea hadn’t been touched in several minutes. He’d been too dumbfounded to remember that it was even there. What to say? It was too much, but at least he could give assent and flee for breakfast, buy time to think alone for awhile.

“Yes…sir. Will that be all? I just need some time to…work a few things out for myself. I’ll be ready for things as they come.”

“All right then. I’ll see you as soon as you have those apologies ready for my review, and again at the start of the new week. A good day to you then, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Thank you.”

Draco excused himself hurriedly, privately wishing that Harry Potter hadn’t been given a private room in which to recover. It would have been some small comfort to see him in person, but it was unlikely that John Prewett would be letting anyone near Harry until he was awake. Still, he could try to finish the apologies early, and perhaps wrangle a visit late tonight or tomorrow. In the meantime, he’d be in his own suite, wolfing down whatever the house elves could bring him for breakfast, hoping he could come up with something plausible in the way of an apology!

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

The Headmistress opened the meeting with her usual no nonsense directness, hiding well that the events of the previous day had shaken her more than she dared to admit.

“Well, we’re called to order, and I should like to start by reassuring everyone that Harry is quite alright. The largest part of my reason for gathering us today, was to let all of you know that, while Harry is under Master Prewett’s care, and did collapse yesterday, that he is resting comfortably and is expected to recover, given enough time to make certain that his recovery is complete.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to know that so many people worried after him, as soon as he wakes. In the meantime, Professor Weasley will be acting as the instructor pro-tem for Defense Against The Dark Arts, with a measure of assistance for his convenience. Yes…Professor Weasley?”

Ron still looked vaguely perturbed, but resigned to his fate. 

“Yeah…about that. Let’s talk about that ‘measure of assistance.’ I want to hear from anyone who has actually had to teach a class with him in it. Just to be fair. You already know my opinion…but let’s at least look at what the rest of you have to say about this. Especially since I’m the one who’ll have to make use of him as a teacher’s aide.”

Minerva stifled a sigh, but it wasn’t a bad idea. An exchange of thoughts and experience might have its use, but Ronald Weasley was obviously looking for ammunition, hoping to rouse a few sympathizers or at least some information that would support his opinions. What Ronald didn’t know, was that Minerva had discreetly spoken with all the instructors who regularly worked with Draco, ever since the boy’s arrival. Of them all, only Harry had been troubled. She acquiesced pleasantly, already knowing the results that this would bring.

“As you wish. A fair enough idea. In turn, would each of you please describe your experiences in working with Draco Malfoy, please. Let us start with Professor Hagrid.”

Hagrid stroked his enormous beard, which was shot through with a bit more gray than it had been years ago, but smiled cheerily enough. He was always the shyest at these meetings. Even after decades had passed, he still hadn‘t grown entirely comfortable with the notion of himself as a professor.

“Heh. Hmm…well…see, eh. Ne’er mindin’ the name an’ all, e’s a good enough lad. Too quiet by half. Always nose in the books n’ all. Does all ’is bookwork, like, but keeps mum while he ’as to be ’round the others. Nothin’ more to say, really.”

Cho Chang spoke up next, shrugging mildly. “Hagrid is right. He barely says a word, but he hardly seemed like trouble. His class work is at a level all its own, and I can’t fault that. To be honest, I was a little surprised by him at first, knowing his father as some of us did, but the only surprise to me now is that he’s considered to be a problem. I still can’t believe half of what I’ve heard. It’s true that he challenged Harry to a duel, and he was certainly very wrong to do so, but it hardly seems like him.”

It was the same with the others, one by one, except for Hermione and Firenze, who were absent. There hadn’t been any sign of trouble in any of the classes, and only Harry had endured something beyond what the rest of the staff had seen. Ron unfolded his hands and rubbed his head. There wasn’t anything more to be done for it.

“Alright. Fine. Consider me settled on it. Go bloody figure. A Malfoy at Hogwarts after twenty years, and the only people he makes insane are a Potter and a Weasley. I’ve said my piece. Let’s just call it a day and get on with this.”

The meeting plodded forward only a little longer, with Neville Longbottom discussing a few smaller points along the way, and John Prewett making a few concessions to the worries of others, informing them in vague terms of Harry’s well-being, inasmuch as he could ensure Harry’s relative privacy while doing so. When all was said and done, the gathered staff disbanded and made their way to breakfast eagerly…except for Ron Weasley…who had lost a little of his appetite suddenly. 

The tension in his stomach didn’t settle easily, and he had more than a few worries of his own.

’Harry, old chum, get well as soon as you can. Looks like the only way I’ll see my own home again anytime soon is if you get a good rest while you can. I just hope a few weeks of working with a Malfoy doesn’t wind me up in the bed next to yours!’

TBC!!!


	23. Waking Up (Is Hard To Do)

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 23: Waking Up (Is Hard To Do)

 

Sleep was a strange thing. Unique for every person. Some needed more, some less. Some adapted easily to changes in sleep cycles, and some did not. Harry had. Dreamless Sleep had granted him the rest he’d grown used to not having. Almost an entire day abed, spent in the cool, dark silence of Harry’s dream-free mind. It was a rare treat after years of making do with fitful and troubled sleep at best.

Harry had abandoned Dreamless Sleep potions years ago. It was difficult to brew, as well as expensive, but that didn’t matter. There were side effects that kicked in after a couple of weeks. Those who craved peaceful rest quickly found themselves unable to cope with their routinely disturbed normal sleep, and abused the powerful potion to achieve slumber untroubled by harsh dreams and memories. The mind was never intended to go without dreams, and this quickly created problems.

Waking visions…or walking dreams as some called them. Dreams began to surface while one was awake, when the mind demanded REM functions resume after being suppressed at night. This kind of thing quickly led to delusional behavior, public embarrassment, and even drastic errors in judgment. For these reasons and more, Harry had put aside Dreamless Sleep as a cure-all for his troubled mind, falling on back on an old Muggle tradition that felt familiar and safe…alcohol.

This past day, he’d slept without troubling dreams. In truth, he’d coped quite well for years, and the dreams weren’t often terrible ones…just sad reminders of things that could never be again. Only these past few weeks had been increasingly unbearable. Minus the blur of alcohol to dull his sleeping mind and blanket his memory, Harry remembered with unusual clarity all that crossed his slumbering subconscious. It hadn’t been comforting at all. Not even John Prewett’s potions had been able to mask his restless imagination.

But Dreamless Sleep had done it. Harry woke in the early evening, more than a little disoriented and blurry eyed, but incredibly well rested and surprisingly full of calm and vigor. He hadn’t felt so rested in weeks…or even in months! 

Then memory cleared and snapped to life, and Harry realized where he must be, and remembered precisely why. He sat up sharply, then leaned back against the headboard on the bed in the private infirmary room, rubbing his eyes.

‘Bloody hell. The infirmary. I lost it. I finally lost it. What the hell was I thinking? Merciful Merlin! I kissed him! Dra…I was half out of my head and kissed him! That’s no excuse…he’s a bloody student! Just a kid. Oh God! I hauled him about by his throat as well. That’s it. I’m done here. It’s bloody over. I’m not fit for this. It’s better if I just retire quietly and let people think it’s for medical reasons. What if this gets out? Christ! I’d…I’d have to go back to Grimmauld Place. Hide in the old house where the press can’t get at me. Who would even want me around them…if they knew what they were really dealing with?’

The sound of footsteps approaching the door interrupted Harry’s half panicked reverie. John Prewett stepped through the door, smiling ruefully, and ambled his way to the chair beside Harry’s bed with a sigh.

“Good morning…or should I say evening…to you, Harry. Sorry to have let you sleep so long, but believe me, you needed it. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Rested. What time is it? Hell…what day is it?”

“You only slept the clock around. It’s about six o’clock. Quite a mess, yesterday was. I think we need to talk about that.”

Harry clenched his jaw quietly. It might as well be addressed now. There wouldn’t be any dodging it later.

“What’s to talk about? I fell apart. I don’t see it as a source of conversation. I need to resign and just get out of here intact. I can be gone in a day or so. It was inexcusable and I know it. I haven’t any business calling myself a teacher. Not like this. Not after-”

“Stop your woolgathering and stuff the recriminations, Harry! You’re not going anywhere until you’ve settled down and had some time to think clearly about this…and that’s an order!”

“What?” Harry couldn’t believe that the genial old man had just barked at him so harshly. He was too shocked to muster any anger, and too certain of his departure to embrace any other possibilities at the moment.

“Don’t act surprised! How thick can one man be? I can tell you’re peeling through way after way that this is entirely you’re fault! Poppycock! Utter nonsense! Harry, I won’t say that you haven’t done some wrong here, but more than a few people have contributed to what happened, and there isn’t one person involved who doesn’t know that! Don’t you play the martyr just to back out of facing what’s going on! Not until I’ve seen to it that you’re ready to make sound choices again.

Harry…I failed you. It isn’t that I’ve never made a mistake before, but I admit that this entire fiasco surprised me. I thought we’d have time to work our way to harder issues later. I thought my potions would do their damned job. Minerva and I thought you were coping with the stress you were facing fairly well. I was wrong on every count. I’m sorry to be scolding you for our errors, but by Merlin, I will not see you blame yourself for this lock, stock and barrel! Am I understood!”

“Um…okay?”

“Good. Now that we’ve settled that, let me bring you up to speed. You’ve been granted a temporary leave of absence from all duties, until such time as I see fit to authorize your return. Ron Weasley will be covering your classes for the time being, with a little assistance. Heh. No punitive actions are even being considered against you, so don’t even worry yourself over that. Your only duty is to rest and recover, and with that in mind, there are things we clearly need to discuss. The question is: do you feel up to discussing some these things now, or would you like the house elves to bring you something to eat and some more rest before we talk further?”

Harry gathered his shattered attention, and spoke with quiet deliberation.

“John…you’re a good friend. I think there are a few things I need to say right now, while I feel lucid. It’s kind of you to say those things, and I know you believe them or I wouldn’t even have heard them, but there are issues…things you need to understand before you make assurances like those.

John…I assaulted a student. I found Draco waiting in my office after that duel, thinking he was going to be beaten. He…he had his shirt off. I…I lost my temper…completely. Even with him baiting me, what I did was inexcusable. It can’t be tolerated. I attacked him…”

“I already know about that, Harry. Grabbed him by the throat…told him what he wanted to know…threw him down. He told me everything, Harry. We’re going to work those issues out, so that you don’t have to worry about having an episode like that again. If I have to, I’ll recuse myself from this and call in some help from St. Mungo’s. Minerva will decide what is or is not tolerable or excusable. That isn’t up to you.”

“John…you don’t…there was more. You don’t understand. After he left…I had…I had visions. Of Draco…MY Draco. I broke down. I was…I was going to drink…and I SAW him! I came to for a few seconds later on. I don’t know how long I was out of it, but I could hear his voice. I let the wards down. The last thing I remember was wondering why he still looked so young! I kissed him…John…I was out of my head…the boy came back…and I thought he was…his father…but I kissed Draco. I…God! He’s a student!”

“Harry! No one else knows about that. Draco told me all of it…even that…and I had to all but pry it out of him. He was quite insistent that your reputation be protected. He cleaned up the mess before anyone came into the room. In fact, he walked through the wards you set, and still had the strength to look after you once he was through. All in all, I’d say he wasn’t that distraught about being the accidental recipient of one kiss. It might be a bit inappropriate to say it, but unless I miss my guess, the boy rather fancies you…though he’d probably deny it ‘til his dying day. Was it inappropriate…absolutely! Was is something that can’t be dealt with? I think not.”

Harry sat, aghast and slack jawed, having just taken in more than he could mentally process. He wasn’t sure what he ought to respond to first.

“You…you mean…no! You can’t possibly be serious!? That’s…that’s…it hasn’t any bearing on this! What he fancies or doesn’t fancy is irrelevant! I was passed out on the floor of my office after all but mauling him! I don’t care what anyone else excuses…I can’t excuse it! Students are inviolate! Worse…ignoring that I was derelict because the student in question had some sort of ‘crush’ is completely irresponsible!”

“Harry…Harry…calm down! I’m not for a moment suggesting that this isn’t serious. I was just pointing out that it isn’t as dire as you might imagine. Some exceptions are being made because Minerva forced you into this and knows it, and because I obviously didn’t predict the strength of your potential reaction to a stressful situation with that particular young man.

Normally, I’d agree with you entirely, but even you must admit, the circumstances here are rather unique. The boy baited you into that argument, and he admitted it completely after the fact. He expected that, after you had vented, you’d relent and tell him what he wanted to hear. The lad doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about whether he was wronged in some way…and quite the contrary, he’s certain that he’s wronged you, and owes you an apology. I expect he’ll be along sometime tonight to make one as well. Given what I know of how this all came about, I’d say that nearly every mistake that could have been made by any of us, has been made, and I think it best if we all share the blame and just move on. It’s ours to simply do the best we can. Let’s not make the same round of mistakes twice, shall we?”

Harry blanched. “John…I don’t want any visitors. Not Draco…no one else either. I don’t…I can’t handle this.”

“You’re sure about that? I can keep them all away for awhile, but a lot of people are worried about you. I’m sure Ron and Hermione will be beating down the door if they have to wait another day. Not to mention our young friend…who at the very least admires you enough to conceal events on your behalf.”

“I’m sure. He’s the last person I need to see. John…you can’t possibly imagine what it was like.” Harry stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking owlishly, then spoke quietly. “I’d swear it was him if I didn’t know better. My Draco. The way he sounded…the same wry kind of humor and seriousness in his voice. I could feel it all around me. Just for a few seconds. I felt…I felt loved. Absolutely loved. Jesus, John…I haven’t felt that in twenty years. It felt like he was right there…and then my eyes cleared and it was his son. I’m a bloody mess. If you want to talk some more tomorrow, fine, but I’m not up to more than this tonight. I…I need to think. Alright?”

“As you wish, Harry. There will be a few potions for you tonight, and I’ll see you before my bedtime rolls around. I’ll be a couple doors down, and the house elves will fall over themselves hurrying if you so much as ask for a single thing, so get yourself some supper and have a nap if you like, but be good to yourself, and try to remember that there is nothing going on that can’t be dealt with. Good enough?”

“Good enough.”

Harry settled back into the pillows while John Prewett returned to his own chambers. So many things raced through his mind that it made his breath catch even without moving or speaking. What was real? What was dream? He’d almost forgotten…after twenty years, what it had felt like to be close to someone who cared for you…who was intimate with you and you alone. He’d been better off forgetting. Now he had the clear memory of what he’d lost…and it hurt bitterly.

Draco was a complicated boy, and his father hadn’t been any less complicated. Articulate, sensitive, gifted and moody. Handsome and athletic, passionate and bright. So many similarities…and so many differences.

How could it be possible? Prewett had to be barmy to even suggest such a thing. Draco’s son had no such feelings for Harry. It had to be guilt over the duel and what came after. It was impressive, that the boy had walked through repulsor wards without thought of the pain and discomfort, and had done so much to preserve Harry’s reputation, but he still didn’t want to look into those eyes. Not now. It was too much to ask. 

Harry rested quietly, and though his stomach growled, he had no real appetite. The thought of food soured his stomach quickly, and he flopped back and forth on the bed, too well rested to sleep easily, but too drawn and tired to commit to any activity yet. Somewhere, decisions lay in wait, eager to be made, but just for a little while, it was nice to hide here, away from a world that sometimes demanded so much.

He wasn’t tired in the flesh anymore, having slept a night and a day, but he’d been tired in his soul for so long that he no longer remembered clearly the days when he hadn’t felt that leaden weight upon him. In the sober light of day, rational and conscious, free of classes and work to hide his thoughts from himself, Harry could find no comfort or distraction to avail him. Only ghosts of what had been to worry over, and new troubles waiting in the wings for his attention.

As much as it had felt like one, this place, Hogwarts, was not his home. He’d never really had one. Not the Dursleys, where he’d been scarcely welcome, and not Grimmauld Place, full of memories kind and cruel. Not the Burrow, full of love though it might have been…and not here.

There had been a place and a time where he’d felt like he could imagine the future, full of possibility and waiting like a sunlit road unfolding constantly before him. And then it had died…and in some small way…so had he.

TBC!!!


	24. Memory

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 24: Memory

 

Ron Weasley flipped through folders and files, textbooks and copious notes, trying to make sense of Harry’s records and class schedules. Flight instruction hadn’t prepared him for this level of paperwork, nor for this level of preparation.

Admittedly, he was brilliant at what he knew, and he’d long ago expanded the flight and broom-care lessons available at Hogwarts, which now included a brief course for older students who wanted to specialize in the field or pursue Quidditch as a potential career. Even so, Ron’s class load was quite light. Lighter even than Hagrid’s. Stepping into Harry’s shoes and temporarily handling seven years and four houses worth of DADA classes was a monumental chore, and it was one he took quite seriously.

Ron was fairly gifted in certain aspects of DADA, and the war was responsible for that, but Harry’s comprehensive knowledge had come from spending those first years after the war as an Auror, then as a teacher researching the subject with an intensity that surprised everyone. The result was a man who was familiar with nearly every known spell for DADA and their applications. Ron couldn’t match that overnight, but he could probably hold out for a couple of weeks and keep the dueling practice on par.

Probably.

The first and second year classes had been easy. The third and fourth had been fairly tolerable as well, but after fifth year, dueling practice was more closely intermingled with standard assignments, and keeping up with it was difficult at best, and downright exhausting to boot!

Seventh year Slytherins and Gryffindors would be gathering for their DADA class in less than an hour, and he still hadn’t found the curriculum overview for that year’s students. In a worst case scenario, he could wing it and walk them through some standard dueling, but it would be a source of personal embarrassment to hare off in a new direction because he couldn’t find a few bloody slips of paper.

“Bloody, buggery fuck-all!” The expletives slipped easily from his tongue, which was a change of pace from home, since he hadn’t cursed in front of his children since his eldest had grown old enough to repeat things. The first time Thelma had spilled her juice and muttered ’bugger’, Hermione had put a charm on the house that spelled the taste of soap into the appropriate mouth! A week of that had seen the end of Ron’s habit for casual curses.

And he still wondered why she couldn’t have left a loophole for parents. Just a clause for emergencies. Like muttering a few under his breath when the girls hogged the bathroom in the morning. Four daughters. Four. All between age ten and five. Little Arthur was trailing along after the girls at age three and a half, but the male contingent of the Weasley household was sorely outnumbered.

Of course, on the bright side, they were the bloody crown jewels of his life, each and every one of them. There wasn’t a nap, or a cookie request, or a spill or bump that Ron didn’t adore utterly, and even when it meant spelling up messes and being the arbiter of a million tiny disputes, it was the most wonderful time of his life.

A time he’d be missing until Harry got back on his feet good and proper. The knock at the door pulled Ron out of his musings and he called out while continuing his search in vain, not bothering to look up from the mess of papers on the desk.

“Come on in! What is it? I’m busy!” ‘Like a nine tailed cat in a room full of bloody rocking chairs!’

“Professor Weasley. I’m supposed to see you about acting as an assistant teacher from now on. Just for DADA. I also have to ask you if you can make room for my apology in class tomorrow.”

Just the voice set Ron’s nerves on edge. Actually, it was a little higher than the voice of the Draco Ron remembered so well. More of a clear, high tenor than the father’s had been. Even so, the sound of a Malfoy speaking never boded well. Never. Ron kept his irritation in a stranglehold and concentrated on the papers in front of him, answering distractedly.

“Good! First assignment…help me find Har-Professor Potter’s syllabus and overview for seventh year classes.”

Ron looked up when the monotone answer began, expecting it to be some kind of sass. It took a few seconds before he realized that the syllabus was being recited, verbally…from memory, in its entirety.

“Hold on! Hold on!” Draco stopped, silent and vaguely bored looking. Ron put aside the paperwork and stared closely, scowling out of pure habit. “Are you serious? You memorized the syllabus? On purpose? Not that it isn’t useful now, but why in the hell would anyone do all that work for a syllabus?”

“It wasn’t work. I only scanned through it once when the class started.” Draco’s voice was a disaffected deadpan. Ron took a second to collect himself before speaking again. Mostly, he had the feeling that someone was pulling some sort of obscure prank on him, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“Right! Go on, then! Pull the other one! You can’t mean you just looked at it once. Doesn’t work that way. Now come off it and let’s just get back to the parts I need to know.”

“I’m not lying! It’s called eidetic memory. Almost photographic. I only have to read things once to remember them. Test me if you want. I can recite every textbook for DADA from first to seventh year. It doesn’t include total comprehension, which is why I have to study a bit for most new spells, just like anyone else, but I can recite anything I read or remember anything I see.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at the angry tone, but seethed as quietly as he could. The chat he’d had about working with Draco had ended with John Prewett threatening a long talk with Ron’s mum, and for all her grandmotherly sweetness, Molly Weasley was not to be trifled with. He’d inevitably agreed to it.

But that certainly didn’t mean he liked it.

“Okay. Let’s say that was true. All that aside, I am Professor Weasley or Sir to you, and don’t address me casually. Don’t forget that you’re a student on probation, and not a staff member! Just because you’ll assist me, it doesn’t mean that you’re a teacher of any kind. Now, I’ll take your challenge. I want you to walk the length of the bookshelf on the left, reading the titles in silence as you go, then turn your back and recite them to me in the order you read them. Do it.”

Two minutes later Ron Weasley was eating a rousing supper of crow, all while writing down notes regarding seventh year DADA as Draco spoke them aloud.

’A useful bloody Malfoy. Makes me think of ’Mione telling me about genetics and freak mutations. Never thought I’d see one though. Who knew? This is still a sentence to hell, but at least they sent along a small, grumpy, air conditioner.’ 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Harry had finally drifted back to sleep after a light supper, which he‘d only taken in because Prewett had been adamant about his eating something. The food at Hogwarts was always good, but it still sat like a lump of lead in his stomach. The Dreamless Sleep had worn off hours ago, and his next dose hadn‘t yet been delivered. Hovering on the brink of slumber, memories came easily, suppressed by Dreamless Sleep the day before.

_He’d been out of the hospital less than eight hours, and moved home to his room at Grimmauld Place. Friends had been streaming through ever since, along with allies from the war, right down to Mundungus Fletcher, who had shuffled in, wringing his hat, and apologized for nicking the silverware while congratulating Harry on his victory and survival._

_One by one, the well wishers came, praising him until his ears were almost numb, but the one person he hadn’t seen was, ironically enough, the one person he most desired to see._

_Draco. None of the others knew. Harry had been unconscious and unresponsive for so long. He couldn’t remember much, but one thing had flickered through his mind, even in the darkness of his subconscious. Draco, alive and warm and near enough to touch. That voice had echoed quietly in his head, even in slumber._

_Only the medi wizard and medi witch assigned to his case had known anything of his memories from the final battle. They were the only two people in the world who knew exactly what Harry had thought of at that final moment._

_Love. He’d been resigned to death, but so incredibly grateful that he’d lived long enough to find love. He’d wanted to live so much at that moment. He’d felt the spell recoil as he fell, but his own life was nearly spent in the process. He’d known that Voldemort was dead, felt it in his heart and soul as the world turned black, and he hadn’t even cared about his victory. What he’d wanted…was Draco. One more minute, one more second, one more spoken word or hungry kiss. Anything…anything for that._

_He’d clung to the severed thread of life within him with all his might, focused wholly on living to see Draco again. He’d lived, albeit only barely, and only the ones who had healed him knew what had been hidden in the forefront of his mind. They’d promised silence, and kept it, and now he was home, surrounded by people he loved and who loved him, adored by the Ministry and the press alike, and all of it was hollow and meaningless because Draco hadn’t seen him since he’d woke._

_Eventually the tide of bodies would recede, and the visitors would trickle away, and Draco could visit while others slept. They’d kept it a secret, this thing between them, but the secret had a price. The war was over, and everything was possible now. No more secrets and lies. The public would forgive anything, and as soon as they spoke, Harry intended to start on plans for the future. Life. Together. Forever._

_Hours whiled away, and Grimmauld Place quieted slowly, as traffic ebbed and celebrants left, but still Draco didn’t come. Hermione and Ron were the last to leave, bound for the Burrow and a big supper, and only Remus remained downstairs, keeping the fire tended to and intending to keep watch over Harry at night. Despite assurances that Harry was well, no one wanted to leave him alone in Grimmauld Place with Draco, who was technically capable of leaving now that his inheritance had been settled. It was just confounding to them that Harry would insist on remaining there instead of the Burrow, and that Draco would choose to do the same._

_Harry comforted himself with the reminder that Draco was still in the house…somewhere, and was probably waiting until Remus was safely asleep before visiting. That had to be it. They’d been secretive for weeks and weeks before the war ended, and Draco had no reason to reveal their relationship…until he spoke to Harry._

_It would be a hell of a change, telling people that they were together. Some might not like it, and others might accept it but be less than enthused, but it had to be done. He wouldn’t compromise on this. What Draco meant to him…it deserved the dignity of honesty. It was too important to be hidden like a secret shame._

_Harry had always been quiet…and more than a little shy. He knew why. Life with the Dursleys hadn’t really equipped him well for making highly public gestures. Or for risking the wrath of his friends and ersatz family. But Draco was different. Worth it a hundred times over. The feeling inside of him when he thought of Draco made him feel strong enough to handle anything. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t alone. He was loved. He could do anything, say anything, endure anything with that magic to sustain him._

_Remus sat up with him for almost an hour, smiling mildly, still pointedly fretting over Harry’s health and well being, reiterating how proud he was of Harry, and how proud Harry’s parents would have been. The soup was thick and well seasoned, and Harry was starved, but it wasn’t enough to do more than make him a little sleepy and take the edge off of his sense of urgency. When Remus turned off the light and headed for bed, wishing Harry a good night’s sleep, Harry thanked him and closed his eyes, alert for every small sound in the house._

_He’d nodded off before he knew it, drifting away on prayers for Draco’s arrival, and he woke with a start when those prayers were answered. It was the tentative tug at the covers, and the shift of weight on the edge of the bed that did it. Harry rolled quietly and opened his mouth to speak, finding himself stifled by familiar lips that worked hungrily against his own._

_Arms slid around him and pushed him back against his pillow while Draco, still pajama clad, straddled Harry’s waist, never breaking that desperate, perfect kiss. The assault on his lips shifted to his neck and throat, and Harry scrambled to speak, trying to manage a whisper , but Draco beat him to it._

_“Missed you…fucker.”_

_“Dra-Draco…weak…can’t…”_

_“Shut up. You don’t have to do anything. You think I’m crazy? Just let me do this…for awhile. Need you.”_

_The words were terse and short, laden with unspoken feelings and tinged with both joy and sorrow. It came to Harry then that Draco had undergone his own long wait, a hundred times longer than Harry’s. It had taken a long while for Harry to heal, and Draco had been alone the entire time, back to being the unwanted refugee, trapped in a house with no allies or friends, waiting for Harry to live or die._

_He let Draco do as he pleased, lying still while the tall, slim young man astride him peeled away his pajama shirt, then opened Harry’s own, only to lie down on Harry’s chest, enfolded in Harry’s arms, face buried in the nape of Harry’s neck. The faint wetness that trickled down Harry’s neck spoke volumes, but Draco wouldn’t want any reminders of that._

_They’d never spoken about things like that. Draco liked that Harry didn’t hold emotions over him…like blackmail, as Slytherins were often wont to do. Sometimes Draco cried, and that was alright, and Harry never reminded him of it after. As he saw it, his part was to let Draco be Draco, and if Draco didn’t want to talk about why he wept, then so be it._

_It became clear that Harry was having trouble breathing after awhile, since Draco’s weight on his chest was more than he could handle after a few minutes. Draco slid to the side quickly, wiping his eyes on his pajama sleeve, then curled in close to Harry, spooning up behind him. It was odd, that Draco would prefer sleeping behind Harry and holding him, since Harry had always imagined that someone who…well…preferred the passive role…would be the one who like being held, but there you had it, Draco was a mass of contradictions, and a law unto himself, and Harry loved him that way._

_Loved him. Harry remembered all the things he wanted to say, tired and wrung out from a long and stressful day. As soon as he started to whisper in the darkness, Draco stirred slightly behind him._

_“Draco…I love you…”_

_The arms around him pulled tighter, and Draco’s head was only inches from his. The answer came…choked and nervous, full of unvoiced feelings that neither dared to touch upon._

_“I…I know. Shhh. No heavy stuff. Not…not yet. Just…let’s…be like this. Just for awhile. ’Kay?”_

_And Harry accepted that with a quiet sigh, more than content in his lover’s arms, happy to be in his own bed, in his own home, and with the one he loved again._

Harry heard footsteps in the hall. The memory slid away like an eel, and reality came back. A bed in the infirmary. A private room. A life that was a hollow mockery of everything it used to be. These were all he had. Now. That time and place, with Draco, it was all gone. The silences between them…had been an uncanny omen of what was to come, and he’d let himself be blind to them, because it was better than risking what he needed most.

And he’d lost it anyway.

“Harry? I’ve got the potion right here. It’s a proper night’s sleep for you until I say otherwise. Tomorrow, when I’m not too busy, we’re going to have a long talk, and I think it’s overdue. Until then, rest easy, alright?”

John Prewett’s voice was all concern and comfort, and Harry nodded quietly, taking the flask of Dreamless Sleep. He drank every last drop, grateful for the temporary freedom it would give him.

TBC!!!


	25. Lamentations and Exhortations

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

 

Chapter 25: Lamentations and Exhortations

 

‘That wasn’t so bad…I suppose. Not really. Considering.’

Draco Malfoy mused quietly as he headed back to his suite. Professor Weasley was alright…in a bumbling kind of way. Ham-fisted oaf. The apology had been…unpleasant, and not particularly well received. Mostly, the other students for the second seventh year class had glowered at him all the way through, still smarting from having their wands handed to them so easily by a Durmstrang student.

It must have been embarrassing for them, being defeated that easily, but at least no one was willing to try anything stupid after seeing the duel against Harry Potter. Draco had been left to his own devices, sorting paperwork on Ron Weasley’s behalf while the class was taught, and he took no real part in it, only taking notes out of a vague sense of responsibility to his own grades.

At least he’d have a grade. He was still here, for now, and Prewett had been right. Ron Weasley was hard to get along with, but not completely impossible. Draco still rankled at the implied insult of his lying about his memory capacity. It hadn’t been easily believed in Durmstrang either, but it had been seven years since someone had challenged him on terms that simple. It still chafed when someone proclaimed him a liar rather than face the truth that they were dealing with someone gifted in ways they weren’t. Arrogant pigs.

He’d dealt with incredulous or downright insulting people all of his life. From his grandparents to his teachers and classmates. Eidetic memory was an aberration…like albinism. In nature, when a creature was visibly different from the rest of its species, it frequently found itself driven away, out of a built in need to protect the rest of the population by getting rid of the one who drew too much attention and risked the notice of predators.

But nature wasn’t the same for humans, and his difference was purely internal. What then was their excuse for labeling him as weird or a liar? Some pathetic need to raise themselves up from the muck by pulling everyone else down into it? He’d never spoken of these things openly, to anyone, and there had never really been anyone to speak to about them.

Tomorrow morning, however, would be different. That morning would bring his first meeting with Master Prewett…for counseling. The very word made his flesh creep. The very notion of sharing his personal thoughts or past experiences was onerous in the extreme. The idea of doing so with a nearly complete stranger was even more so. There were things that, in all honesty, he knew set him apart from others, but wasn’t a person entitled to their privacy?

Privacy. The word conjured memories of Harry’s lecture on the subject. This wasn’t the privacy of a room or of personal boundaries of space. This was a deliberate intrusion into his thoughts and feelings. Things he had no desire to share. His grandparents would have sneered at the entire concept. Nothing in his mind was worthy of examination by another…and it was better kept to himself anyway.

Harry. He’d been calling him that…just to himself…lately. Prewett had said that Harry didn’t want company yet. No one had seen him for two days…except Prewett. It was intolerable! There were things he wanted to say, and writing a letter seemed woefully insufficient for these kinds of things.

His room was ahead, and in that still quiet he studied and wrote, always pushing to exceed any expectation that might be placed upon him. Tonight was no different. A request of the elves for dinner, quickly eaten and barely savored, and study until dusk. The calm rote of study was soothing, stripping away layers of thought that clamored to run wild. In here, adrift in text after text, drafting inch after inch of parchment, he was free. Free from the imagination that whispered promises that could never come true.

The pen was put aside when the hour grew late, and the elves had already conjured away the plate and silverware. Draco never read books more than once. He remembered them all…always. Every word he’d ever taken in was still with him, immortally etched into his mind. There was only book for which he made an exception. His book. His refuge.

It wasn’t mere words. It was a tangible feeling when he held it to him. Like a warm blanket on a cold night. Love. It echoed off the pages and through the covers and binding. Love. The only way he’d ever felt it. Real and alive and all around him while he pored page by page over words he already knew. A misty dream of another time, a story with an ending he already knew and should have been able to put down long ago…but he didn’t.

He was a freak. An accident. A terrible mistake, and the progeny of evil. That’s what he’d been told…what he’d been taught long ago. Durmstrang had borne up the opinion of his grandparents, quickly finding him unsatisfactory on some level no matter how hard he’d tried to be better…to be worthy. He’d believed them absolutely…until he found the book.

He was not an accident. His parents had loved him enough to leave him where he was safe…even while it terrified them to do so. His father had wanted a son, and loved that son in spite of everything. He was too young to remember anything of them. Just pictures and clippings from a vanished time, but he had this. This was his legacy. The truth. It hovered in the air near it, so vibrant and strong that it could be felt heart and soul.

Love was real. It existed. It wasn’t an illusion of a mistake of fancy. It could happen. He wanted it to happen. Somehow…someway. Even to someone who might not be worthy of it.

The book found its way back to his trunk, with the same hesitation he always felt when parting with it. Spells for locking and warding. Clothes gave way to pajamas. The mage-light winked out. It was time for sleep, but it didn’t come quickly or easily. There was a way to speed the transition, from restless turning to drowsy slumber, but it was something turned to in embarrassment, knowing that it was weak and shameful.

But it would have to do.

The drawstring was pulled open in silence and Draco slipped the pajama bottoms down to the middle of his calves. It didn’t take more than a second or two to reach a state of arousal, given that, at eighteen, his body responded when the wind shifted! Logically, he knew this was a pointless ritual of adolescence, and practically beneath him, but the physical need was still there. This was simply one of those things that had to be done…or sticky sheets and crusted clothing would result.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this almost weekly since his second year at Durmstrang. It wasn’t a mystery as to why people did it. It felt good, particularly at the finish, but pain and pleasure were objectifications of the flesh…states of mind that people allowed to control them. It was insipid to say the least…but it did have a draw.

Draco’s mind was largely blank of traditional thoughts while his hand worked distractedly below the sheets. Most people probably would have been inundated in lusty imaginings. Classmates or coworkers, handsome or pretty passers by, lovers past or potential, but not Draco. It was just a bodily function…a necessary source of relief that triggered a predictable state of relaxation afterwards, easing the arrival of needed sleep. His mind flicked through calculations and class work, future plans and recollections of past study.

When his teeth clenched softly on his bottom lip, and his legs shuddered reflexively, and moisture trickled onto his stomach and cooled quickly in the night air, Draco clenched his eyes shut and stifled a gasp. His mouth became a pinched and bitter line while he felt the calm of post-orgasm creep over him. It came softly while he spelled the mess away wandlessly and pulled up his pajamas with businesslike detachment. 

It made so little sense. Such a waste of time on an animal impulse. Unfair, that he should be ruled by impulses and needs that wasted time and distracted thought.

And unfair that he should have only a stolen kiss to remember at that last moment. Warm lips against his own, gently tugging at his with a hungry insistence that was lodged at the forefront of his memory. Closeness so intense that it made his face burn with shame. That such a small thing could make his stomach turn and flip. Make legs suddenly tremble and arms ache to reach out. To grab, to hold, to submerge himself in another and be lost in them.

Unfair. ‘It wasn’t me he wanted. And he never would. Just like everyone else.’

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

The room had piled up with card and flowers and whatnot, until it barely seemed like a proper room, and more like some kind of storage for the leftovers of some grand party. Except that Harry was alone and wanted to stay that way. Prewett had insisted on letting the elves bring in the evidence of people’s concern for Harry, but the man didn’t grasp that it was all meaningless.

Their affection was built on a fiction. The person they adored wasn’t real. He didn’t exist. What had passed for that man was here in this room, surrounded by petty examples of ‘love’, living and breathing without the love he wanted. The love he’d killed for, violated even his own ethics to avenge, and finally, after all these years, mauled a student over. Not just any student…but Draco’s own son.

Harry turned and tossed his second evening through. Prewett had badgered him rather gently to talk today, but he’d stubbornly refused. So many years, contained, controlled, emotions carefully veiled and restrained. Now they ran free, like wildfire scorching the dry plains of his soul. He hadn’t wanted this, but it had been pushed upon him until the dam broke inside and nothing could be easily held back anymore.

It hurt. Badly. Harry knew inside, somewhere rational and calm, that the scar tissue covering the wound in his heart had been cut open, and the infection that had festered inside for so long was belching forth like stinking pus. It felt like the life was slowly leaking out of him. The iron will that had held him upright no matter how much he’d endured was gone…irrevocably gone…and without it he could barely stand…and didn’t really want to anymore.

The footsteps in the hall were John Prewett, of course, coming to deliver tonight’s doses of potion. They all worked. Harry was calm, and didn’t feel unhealthy, but none of them changed the subtle claws that tore at him during waking hours. Dreamless Sleep offered sweet relief, but only for as long as Harry slept. The rest of the time, he had his own mind to wrestle with, and that took as much strength as he possessed, leaving nothing for maintaining his image in front of friends or well wishers.

“Hey, Harry.”

The door had opened and closed to reveal Neville Longbottom instead of John Prewett. Harry’s brow wrinkled in irritation, given that his request for privacy had obviously been ignored. Still, Neville had been a friend for a long time, and a good one at that. It was impossible to muster anything but vague annoyance, and anger was beyond Harry’s current level of energy. He simply felt tired. Drawn out, thin and weary. He nodded to Neville and grudgingly replied.

“Nev. Probably didn’t get the word from the others. Not…not really up for company yet. Sorry, mate. Just leave us be for awhile longer. I suppose I’ll be alright in a while.”

Neville stood still and quiet a moment, then fixed his gaze on Harry and stood up to his full height. It wasn’t really all that impressive, but the effort was clear.

“Then I guess you’d better bloody well get used to it, because I’m not leaving until I’ve said my piece! I forged Minerva’s name onto a slip commanding John to let me in, and I didn’t waste all that effort for nothing! You’ll hear me out or you’ll get no peace at all. So how’s that?”

Harry’s eyebrows raised while he suppressed a cough of shock and surprise.

“Nev? You forged something?! Over this? Look, mate. I appreciate it, but I just want to be left alone. I…what I‘ve done…Nev…I don‘t think I belong here anymore. ”

“Well…yeah…so!? I kept mum about all this the same as Minerva has, but it doesn’t mean I know any less of it. Got it secondhand and minus a few details I reckon, but close enough to know I should have said something to you before! I mean, shite, Harry! I know I’m not Ron or ‘Mione, but maybe that…that’s just as well.

“You haven’t any business sitting on your duff feeling sorry for yourself! You’re Harry bloody Potter for Merlin’s sake! Not ‘cause you’ve got your scar and all that, but because you always came through for everyone else, and it’s a perfect crock that everyone is handling this with kid gloves because they love you so much! It ought to have been said before now.

“You bollocksed this one up, but good! So bloody what! It just means you’re finally one of us! The rest of us cock up about twice a week when we’re lucky! You haven’t any right to lay about cursing yourself for finally dropping the ball! Welcome to being a fucking human! You really think we’d all turn on you just because you aren’t perfect after all? Rita Skeeter maybe, but not anyone who counts.

“If you up and quit before getting out of that bed and trying again…I swear I’ll…well…well I don’t what I’d do, but you won’t like it! And I mean it! Just because I teach Herbology don’t go thinking I won’t dot both your I’s and cross your T’s if you turn tail on everyone who’s pulling for you! The only person who’s forgotten anything is you!”

Harry sat in gob-smacked silence. Neville hadn’t cursed anyone a blue streak like that since a seventh year Herbology student turned loose a carnivorous plant during class a decade ago.

“Okay! Okay! You win! I surrender. What else do you want? If it’ll calm you down, it’s yours!”

Neville paused a moment, unsure of exactly what else to say. He was still recovering from his own explosion of temperament, and not being used to them, needed a little longer than most to adapt.

“I…uh…I’m not sure. Just…you know…get well…you prat. It isn’t the same without you. Oh…and let your bloody friends in, ’cause if ’Mione and Ron find out I did this and saw you before they did, it’ll be my arse! Never minding Minerva hearing bout forged papers! ’Kay?”

Harry chuckled weakly. “Okay, Nev. Get well first, friends second, work third. I have my marching orders. Did anyone ever tell you that you should have been an Auror instructor? I was waiting to be given a hundred push ups for dereliction of duty.”

Neville blushed furiously. “Heh. Nah. But seriously, mate. We miss you, perfect or not. Get back to work, you lazy bum. Before Ron dies of apoplexy teaching your classes with young Malfoy as an assistant.”

Harry’s eyes popped wide open, and his pulse quickened half a heartbeat later.

“What!?”

Neville turned back to the door and was almost out of it while Harry waited for his answer, then left Harry with a final comment to chew on before his potion and rest.

“’Struth, mate. If you don’t like it, then get back in the saddle again and run those classes yourself like you ought to! G’nite.”

Harry sat upright in bed after Nev had gone, shaking his head in shock. Ron Weasley and young Draco teaching his courses in DADA…together?

“Well bugger me sideways and running. If I’ve nothing else to get well for…I have to see that!”

TBC!!!


	26. A Fishing Expedition

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

 

Chapter 26: A Fishing Expedition

 

“What do you mean he won’t see me! I just wanted to apologize to him formally! I’ve come for this ‘counseling’ bollocks you set stock in, not to be insulted by being left out in some antechamber because I’m not welcome!”

John Prewett set his jaw and tried to remember that he was dealing with a teenager, albeit a brilliant one. 

“Mind your tongue! The request was Harry’s, not mine, so I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue with me at all times! Bollocks indeed! We’ll be meeting in my office, and that’s that, and we’ve aplenty to speak of, not the least of which is your temper! Now scoot!”

“I…I’ve never been told to…to ‘scoot’ in my entire life!”

“Well, it’ll happen a lot more if you don’t start moving! NOW!”

Draco relented primarily because he knew full well that Prewett was the sole point of access to Harry Potter, and inflaming the man’s temper was accomplishing nothing at all…not to mention that Prewett was his current mentor in Harry’s absence, and could easily make Draco’s time at Hogwarts less savory than it already was. That didn’t stop him from sneering irritably while he stomped into Prewett’s office and flopped onto one of the seats with a scowl.

“Fine. I’m here. It’s counseling. Counsel me. Whatever.”

“Hmmph! Your first problem is that you still think of this as some form of arcane punishment! My part in this isn’t to punish you, or even directly help you. The idea is to help you help yourself. That’s why it’s called counseling instead of helping! Would you like something to drink? Juice, tea, water?”

Draco bristled a little, then relented. What harm could come of getting comfortable? He had to get through this anyway. A glass of water wouldn’t hurt.

“Water. That’s all. Thank you. So…if you aren’t helping me, then what are you doing. How is this supposed to produce any worthwhile effect?”

John Prewett eased himself into the chair opposite Draco, nursing a cup of tea for himself.

“Ahhh. Well, I suppose I can start from the beginning, since it’s our first meeting and you seem completely confounded by this. To be frank, most people take issue with certain things in their lives. Occasionally, there may be more issues than people can cope with effectively at one time, or the issues in question may be so significant that a person or persons just can’t manage them well on their own. The idea behind counseling is to introduce a certain level of introspection and self examination to the process, via a neutral party…specifically myself. What I think you need to understand is that, by participating in this, there is no admission of something being wrong with you.

A lot of people have the mistaken notion that, if they can’t deal with their stresses and problems well on their own, that it’s some sort of failing on their part. A flaw of character. This is entirely untrue. The truth is that the overwhelming majority of people can benefit from even a small amount of casual counseling…pre-assuming that they actually enter into it with the goal of gaining something from the experience.

To prove my point, I’ll make a concession and tell you something entirely personal, but relevant, especially since you shouldn’t look on me as a judge of some kind. My purpose here is to help you develop a solid grasp of the issues which seem to challenge you. It only seems fair to share my experiences and thoughts with you, since I’ll be expecting you to share yours.”

Draco sipped his water, eyeing the man suspiciously. Prewett was entirely reasonable in his tone, but Draco just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being led down a path to an obvious conclusion.

“Okay. Fair enough.”

“Well, let me first say that I’ve been a medi-wizard more than twice as long as you’ve been alive. Not to brag, but in general, I know what I’m doing. I was on staff at St. Mungo’s during the war, almost two decades ago. It was a difficult time for a lot of people, and there were quite a few who had worse to deal with than we did. That said, I treated a great deal more people than usual, and for ailments more serious than usual.

There were also people that couldn’t be helped. A great many people died during the war against Voldemort, and in my profession, watching that happen over and over again is inevitable.

I took an oath upon becoming a medi-wizard, which binds me to treat anyone in need. Being unable to do anything about the needless death and suffering around me, quite honestly, was the most painful thing I have ever endured. I did well enough through the war itself, but afterwards I found myself at a loss for means to cope with what I remembered…what I’d seen and felt.

I had difficulty sleeping, suffered a loss of appetite, became irritable and restless without explanation. I had unpleasant dreams for quite awhile, and I stopped seeing my friends and family for long periods of time. This was noticed by my wife, and by other people who knew me well, and I accepted that perhaps counseling might do me some good.

It genuinely did. I can’t recall a single perfect answer given to me, or any one defining moment at which I suddenly changed my outlook, but I did make my peace with my own feelings, and in due time I felt a great deal like my old self again…albeit a little wiser for the wear. I still see death as my enemy, but I also understand that there are things I have no control over, and that carrying the weight of it all as if it were my personal responsibility is both unreasonable and harmful.

And so, my point is that, whatever you may think now, I hope that you’ll look at this as an opportunity to know yourself better, and make your own peace in your time and way. How does that sound?”

Draco had listened raptly, particularly to the parts that had been mentioned about the war. It was one thing to read of it decades after the fact…it was another thing to hear of it in terms like these. People dying, healers breaking down from stress. Harry was at the very forefront of the war. What must it have been like for him? Knowing, as he did, what Harry had lost, it sounded uncomfortably like a vision of hell itself.

“It sounds…amenable. Just…what makes you think I’m not at peace? Maybe I’m completely at peace, and people just don’t recognize it.”

The sniff of vague disdain wasn’t lost on John, but at least there was a hint less arrogance now. Curiosity was taking root. If the lad could see some benefit to be gained, he might just start applying himself to this.

“I haven’t any reason to be antagonistic toward you, so take this as you please and understand that I’m trying to be as direct and honest as I can. Draco, the events of the past week seem to hammer home that you don’t deal well with frustration of any kind. The loss of your temper, and a rather spectacular loss of it at that, is why we’re here now.

I know just enough of your time at Durmstrang to say with authority that you were treated abominably, whatever you might have done, and I personally suspect that more than a few of the challenges to your ability to socialize comfortably with others stems from that time.

Additionally, you seem to know quite a bit more than most about the degree of friendship between your father and Professor Potter. Your impatience over acquiring details about that time overcame your judgment, and very clearly pulled you into a conflict with someone that you have since proven both your admiration for and loyalty to…both in words and deeds. 

My intervention canceled your expulsion, and you should know that, since you’re of age, charges could have been brought by the Ministry, had we be inclined to do so. I don’t think either of those are productive choices. The little I’ve heard from Harry, as well as your other professors, all points toward your exceptional quality as a student. No one would want to see that enormous potential wasted. To be specific, I hope you might come away from this with a better ability to rein in your anger and frustration. That might go a long way toward giving you a better outlook on things, not to mention the ability to stay out of undue trouble in the foreseeable future. Who wouldn’t want that for you?”

Draco felt the faintest hint of a blush strike his cheeks. His question had been answered, with brutal accuracy. His display in the classroom had started this, and it was at the center of his inability to see Harry. Too many of Prewett’s questions were desperately close to things he didn’t wish to speak about. 

“I…I understand. How do…how does this begin?”

Prewett smiled disarmingly. “Draco, it doesn’t haven’t to begin with anything exceptionally discomforting, although those are the things you should think about carefully, and consider sharing at some point. This is just the first day for all this. Why don’t we just start with how you’re feeling right now? Apprehensive? Irritable? Angry? Confused? Anything at all. And don’t think for a minute that there is anything wrong with having feelings, or having any particular feeling in general. Just…talk…and we’ll go from there. Alright?”

Well, that didn’t seem as bad as he’d imagined. As long as it wasn’t some sort of interrogation, punctuated with continual and implied insults along the way. This…this wasn’t entirely unworkable.

“Well…I am frustrated. Professor Weasley isn’t anything like Professor Potter. I want Professor Potter to at least talk to me. I know I could let this rest a little if I could apologize to him. I know I caused…caused some of this, but I don’t think I’m being allowed to do the honorable thing.

I should be able to do something…anything! Instead I just sort paperwork and help grade parchments. I keep getting the impression that everyone wants me to talk to them, but I’m not allowed to speak to the one person to whom I have something to say.”

Prewett smiled very reasonably and sipped at his tea. “See? Not so hard, is it? We can start with that. To explain at more length, in a way that you might feel more comfortable about, Harry Potter has requested privacy. I granted that request, for the time being, but I can promise that it won’t last forever, or even all that much longer. I think he’s doing a bit better, and that’s all I can share without violating my ethics as a medi-wizard. 

I personally think that you respect Professor Potter quite a bit. That’s very admirable of you, and he’s certainly done quite a few things worthy of respect. I still think that respecting his wishes for a little longer is a gesture of respect that he would appreciate. As for Professor Weasley, I wasn’t kidding you when I suggested a game of wizard chess. If you want his respect, beat him fair and square and you’ll have it. He has an unholy passion for it…and one thing you should know…do not underestimate him. You might find it a great deal more challenging than you expect. So how’s that for a start?”

Draco sighed. “Not…bad. So what else do we talk about?”

John Prewett smiled merrily with eyes twinkling pure mischief. The hook was baited, and the fish was on the line.

“Anything you want.”

 

TBC!!!


	27. The Hard Truth

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

 

Chapter 27: The Hard Truth

 

‘I always imagined a week of bed rest as increasingly relaxing. Another bloody day of this and I’ll be positively mental! Wait…heh…that’s how I wound up with the time off in the first place. Bugger. I really do have all the luck, don’t I? Is there a level you can go that’s past barmy?’

Harry nibbled impassively at his meal, pillows under his back and piled high to make him comfortable in bed. There were other things to do, but there were only so many books to be read, and there were other small annoyances that had become clearer as the days whiled by in relative solitude.

He had talked to a few people. Ron and Hermione, Minerva, and a brief visit from Hagrid…who had gotten a bit teary eyed about Harry being sick so long. Cho Chang had passed through a day ago, and Neville had dropped by again, this time far less ferocious than before. All in all it wasn’t that bad, but Prewett had become more relentless in his ‘conversations’ with Harry, and Harry knew full well that John was in ‘counselor mode’. Every chat this week had hinted at drawing out details from the past, dredging things up from the depths of Harry’s mind that weren’t simple cut and dried issues.

These things had been close to his thoughts for days, hovering near like buzzards over a man lost in the desert. He’d pushed so many thing aside for such a long time, but here, alone, there was no place to hide from his own thoughts. Or from his memories.

He’d managed to deal reasonably well while talking about the killings. It had been more appetizing than speaking of Draco, and Harry’s mind was already inflicting enough memories of those times on him as it was. The Dreamless Sleep had worked and worked well, and Harry had to admit that physically, he felt genuinely better, rested and energetic, restless and eager for things to occupy his time. More than fit enough to work.

But Dreamless Sleep had its price.

So much time on his hands, so little to distract him. The daydreams came easily, and often. Especially just upon waking, or just before bed while he rested quietly. He knew from experience that it would only get worse as the days passed. Dreamless Sleep suppressed the capacity to dream, but the human mind was a fickle and demanding mistress. A person needed to dream to be healthy, and in the absence of traditional REM sleep, Harry’s memories came back to him in fleeting snapshots and hazy musings, all at random during the day or evening.

John had taken to asking about them, expecting answers beyond Harry’s hesitant excuses. They weren‘t really such terrible memories. They ought to be happy ones, right? Draco alive and well and healthy. Making love whenever they could find time alone. Talking quietly in bed. Harry could remember the mornings he’d made breakfast for them when Remus finally left Grimmauld Place.

He’d always hated making breakfast. At least when it was for the Dursleys, who had never appreciated him despite his efforts to please. He wasn’t exactly sure which day it had started, but after Remus had gone, Harry started cooking for himself and for Draco, and it had been one of the only times he could remember being grateful for the ability to make a decent breakfast.

That musing was almost enough to touch off a full scale daydream. The sound of sausages frying on the big, black skillet he’d used. The scent of toasting bread and the tart sweetness of orange juice. Draco was always amazed by the way Muggles lived and ate, and the small differences in diet often amused and distracted him. Not that he really complained. He ate everything that Harry served, almost always with a smile on his face.

They didn’t bother with much in the way of clothes then. Just pajama bottoms and slippers for comfort. Draco had developed a keen appreciation for food after his time away from school, before Snape had delivered him to the Order. A few weeks of serious hunger had transformed the once famously irascible Draco Malfoy into an appreciative and cheerful diner, with impeccable manners, using ’Please’ and ’Thank you’ with a very believable air of gratitude about him. Cooking for someone who, along with having already gotten you off twice that morning, showed their appreciation by kissing your neck while their hand slipped into your pajamas…well…it was a hell of a lot better than cooking for the Dursleys!

So many hazy little moments, and so few of them without at least a hint of the warm and ever-present sense of affection and closeness between them. That was it…that was what ultimately made the end so painful. How could anything like that…how could it have ended?

’I did something. Something wrong. Or didn’t do something I should have done right. I thought…I thought I deserved it….being that happy. I didn’t. Maybe saving the world doesn’t qualify you for any discounts on having a happy life. Maybe I’ll never understand it. Why? Why did he…want something else? 

I wasn’t good enough. Somehow…someway. I thought I tried. I thought he was happy. He was quiet sometimes, but he seemed happy. Then he…he…he asked for that. How could he think I’d want that? He had to know I was in love with him, didn’t he? If he didn’t like me saying it out loud, it didn’t stop me from showing it every way I could.

He always showed me what he liked. Wasn’t I a good enough lover? I was a virgin a few months before that! He taught me everything…and I thought I made him happy. He certainly wanted more often enough!

I know he thought about his family…how they raised him, what they expected of him. But who…who the hell would ask someone they really loved to do what he asked of me? To stand aside and be a secret from a wife and the world?

And that was the heart of it. Harry felt tears leaking a small trail down his cheeks while he stared up at the ceiling, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. There was an ugly truth at the core of it. He’d avoided it as often as he could, and it hurt him the most when his memories forced him to brush against it. He knew the truth. He’d always known it…to some degree, but it hurt him more than he could describe when circumstances forced him to acknowledge it.

He’d hidden it from the world, avoiding the entire subject and everything related to it. It was muddled amongst the many secrets, where no one could find it and force that truth upon him. The silence regarding his sexuality, the clandestine nature of his time with Draco, the killings after the death of Draco and Claire. It all muddied the waters around a truth he’d skirted the edge of for nearly two decades.

’He didn’t really love me. Not the way I loved him. He must have…felt something. Like…or lust. Not love…or not enough love. He never lied to me. That’s why he never spoke about it. That’s why he always hushed me or changed the subject. He didn’t try to pretend there was more to it than there was. I did that. Ron was right. The others would have told me not to get involved with him. I didn’t want to hear it, because I didn’t want to believe it was true. There wasn’t anything else I could have done to make it work. I didn’t do anything wrong…not really. Except perhaps expecting too much.

I’ve kidded myself almost half my life…to keep this to myself. My great love affair with Draco Malfoy. It was just a teenage joke. We were together, and got on alright, and shagged as much as we could, but it wasn’t more than that. Not to him. If he’d really loved me…the way I loved him…he wouldn’t have asked that.

Have I been weak for not wanting to say that? For not wanting to admit it? Who would want to look back at someone they really loved and say that about them? Not me. I know what I felt. I know what I wanted to feel. It doesn’t make him evil…to admit this. I know he was a good person. Just…not…my good person.’

That was the truth. It had nipped at his heels every day of these last decades, and he’d fought back with spells and potions and finally whiskey, but it had never gone away. It was alright to cry, knowing this, now while he was alone. Some things just hurt because they did, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. Oddly, he couldn’t quite help smiling and laughing a little at it all while he cried.

That was what had cost those men their lives. When Draco had died, Harry’s anger had been a convenient means to hide his pain. The reminder of his loss, never resolved. Maybe if they’d spoken to each other, been a little more honest, maybe a little more direct and clear, it would have just hurt and then healed. But they hadn’t, and it didn’t, and Harry had held that silent confusion and desperation to himself as a comfort when he was alone. And then Draco died. Three lives were snuffed out because he hadn’t wanted to face what he knew to be true.

Being angry had been preferable to being honest. He vented his rage in the way he could rationalize as ’fair’, and it hadn’t been enough. Even when he’d violated the last shreds of his dignity and his oath to the Auror Service, he still hadn’t exhausted that terrible gnawing canker in his soul.

It was long past time. John, Hermione and Ron, Neville, Minerva and all the others were right. It was time to grow up and put all that behind him. It was a different time then, the aftermath of a war that changed the world…and it had damned near killed him in the process. Those times were long gone, and life was very different now. People forgot, and forgave, and moved on. Now it was time for him to the same.

It had felt so real…that fleeting vision in his classroom. Draco, real and shimmering before him like some spirit guardian made manifest. He’d felt the echo of that closeness and warmth. Maybe he’d wanted to? Had that been the help that his exhausted mind had needed to stay sober? He’d been withdrawing from alcohol, dosed in Calming Potions, sleeping fitfully and dreaming of a dead lover for weeks while seeing Draco’s son each day. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to accept that he’d just gone ‘round the twist from stress. Either way, he hadn’t seen or felt any such thing since that horrible day, and he was almost grateful that he could claim relative sanity now.

Perhaps…perhaps he would leave Hogwarts. Maybe it was time to go home and start over again? Not just yet. He’d finish his treatments for his liver, and talk to John Prewett a little more openly than before. Something had shifted inside of him, and Harry felt that faint possibility of a better life in front of him for the first time in a long time. Maybe not a sunlit road, but hardly a darkened tunnel either. 

It was alright…to talk about it. At least with Prewett, who would keep these realizations a secret. Harry could finally tell the truth, and even if that changed very little of his present, at least he could start on building a future that wasn’t bedeviled by the ghost of a love that never quite was.

And that would have to do.

 

TBC!!!


	28. Windows

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

 

Chapter 28: Windows

 

The long class day was done, and along with his own work, most of which had been finished during the actual classes, he also had papers to grade for most of the younger year DADA students. The hard part was remembering to employ what Professor Weasley had told him.

“You can go easier on them than this! Great Merlin! There’s enough red ink on these to flunk the whole class…twice! Do you have any concept of the fact that these are eleven and twelve-year olds? Do you? Relax. Stick to correcting serious inaccuracies. Leave a note or two about what was wrong if you think the correction is needed, but damn! Give ’em a break.”

That had led to one of the predictable little disputes between them. Draco was beginning to get used to it. At least the losing part, since Professor Weasley never let a disagreement go very far before invoking his authority and ending it right there, usually with a red-faced and baleful glare of irritation. The ignorant goat. How could anyone learn anything of worth while lollygagging about, playing with boggarts and the like? Hogwarts was nothing like Durmstrang, and the differences were most telling when it came to things like this.

It was impossible to imagine an instructor at Durmstrang laughing alongside his class after casting ‘Riddikulus’ at a boggart trapped in a box. Professor Weasley had bellowed the spell at an enormous Acromantula, and the class had gone from terrified squeaks to undignified laughter when the creature suddenly found itself on wheeled skates and tumbled to the floor.

The class had been more like a children’s party than a proper course of study. Throw in Professor Weasley’s laxity regarding the incredible number of minute errors and misspellings, and it barely seemed like schooling. None of this changed his irascibility with Draco, who always got vague orders, distracted requests, and the general impression that Professor Weasley disliked him and was only going through the motions of working peacefully together, and DADA had become a daily grind of meaningless paperwork. Especially since Draco wasn’t allowed to cast as much as a single spell since ‘the incident’.

It was time to turn in the pile of paperwork in front of him, and he’d grudgingly gotten the hang of ignoring the vast surplus of small mistakes and only marking against the most obvious gaffes. It was also time to try out Master Prewett’s recommendation. Not that Draco really cared what ‘the Weasel’ thought of him, but it might make his average day a little less unpleasant. Still, if one graded on a curve that included Durmstrang, life at Hogwarts was a considerable improvement.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

A polite rap at the door, which was open, and Ron Weasley lifted his head from the seventh-year papers he was grading. His eyes always went a little flinty when he saw Draco Malfoy, just before he pulled himself together and managed to keep a normal tone with son of the person he’d once loathed most in the world.

“I’ve finished the first and second years’ papers for the week. Anything else, sir?” The faint hint of acid that usually marked any comment from Draco was absent for once, and Ron paused to rub his temples.

“Nah. I think that’s it for now.” He genuinely wished he could go home and enjoy the comforts that only home could give. It wasn’t that DADA was a subject he hated…it was that DADA was a complicated subject to manage. The endless permutations and spell knowledge that were required made it one of the tougher courses to teach, demanding as much from the teacher as from the student. Ron knew the subject well…but not like Harry, and that made a real difference in the number of hours that Ron spent preparing the lesson plans for each day and week, even when Harry had left most of it written down.

“So…uh…would you care for a game of wizard chess? I heard you were very good.”

Ron lifted an eye, searching the young man’s face for even a hint of levity. The boy’s face was blank, and at a guess he looked perfectly serious, but Ron labored hard to keep from doing a patent double-take.

“You’re serious? I’m almost done here, and I haven’t had the chance to keep my game up just lately…since someone made it necessary to teach my best friend’s classes while he recuperates, but…”

Draco bristled with outrage. “What…I…rrr! Never mind! What did I ever do to you!? Here’s the papers. Good night!”

Ron knew perfectly well he’d struck a nerve, and though it wasn’t something he liked to admit, he was almost glad he had. Everything about the snarky little git was painfully reminiscent of his father. There were too many memories attached to that name and that face…not the least of which was one that involved waking up feeling like his guts had been ripped out, only to find out later that the poison intended for Dumbledore had gone down Ron’s throat instead.

Even that aside, Ron was a largely fair man, and it shamed him enough to know he was being unfair in the extreme. Almost two decades with Hermione hadn’t gone without a certain amount impact too. He could just imagine what she’d say about his last comments to the boy.

’Ron Weasley! Is it absolutely necessary for you to be a complete and total ass?! After this long, and you can’t even at least manage that without putting forth so much extra effort?! Please!

Ron shuddered while Draco opened the door to leave in a huff. It made his teeth ache to even say it, but the words came anyway.

“The chess set’s in the corner…unless you think you couldn’t win, of course.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Troll takes Knight. Check”

Ron smiled mildly, then moved without hesitation. A single piece, a pawn at that, and Draco looked again in surprise.

“Check and checkmate.”

“But…but…”

“I’ll give you a minute to see for yourself, but anywhere you move, you drop into a position where I can take your King. Fafnir’s Gambit. I started it nine moves ago.”

“Fine! I can’t believe I didn’t see it coming! If it had been anything but a common pawn…”

“That’s why I did it. You countered the other classic ploys I tried within two moves. Got to admit…you are pretty good. I haven’t played a game longer than twenty minutes in almost five years…until tonight. Well…except against my wife. If you think I’m good, she‘s brutal. I should know…I taught her.”

Draco simmered a moment, then realized he’d just been complimented.

“You’re better than I expected. Prewett warned me that you were good. It’s just…I didn’t think there were that many moves I hadn’t heard of before. There were three occasions that I thought you had something in mind that I couldn’t predict, and I was only guessing at a way to balk them. That…it was pretty good. Thanks.”

Ron paused a moment to properly absorb the notion of a polite Malfoy, much less one that had made him work for a win.

“You’re welcome. Well…unless you’re up for another game, I mean to get some dinner and enjoy some quality Floo time with my kids before bed.”

“Yeah. I…” Draco wasn’t blind by any means. There was a golden opportunity here. Not merely to close some perceived gap between himself and a man he didn’t particularly like, but also to make a peace between himself and someone who had at least seen and spoken to Harry this past week. It was better than nothing.

“How come you dislike me so much? Don’t pretend I don’t know. It was a good game and all, but you can barely stand being in the room with me most of the time. I’d just like to know.”

Ron frowned. “Well…for starters…you’re too damn blunt!”

Draco bit his tongue and raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Ron put his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. As long as the gauntlet of challenge had been thrown down, he might as well pick it up. Besides…an honest question deserved an honest answer. Didn’t it?

“And I haven’t slept in my own bed since Harry…Professor Potter took ill. I haven’t seen my kids for more than a few minutes every night since I started teaching this class. I haven’t been away from my home for more than one night at a time since the day I got married, and that’s exactly how I liked it. Take one guess as to why I’m a little irritated. Make it a good one.”

Draco found that unsettling. He hadn’t thought of it like that at all. He’d expected animosity toward his father, which was expected, since that was all he seemed to get here most of the time. The idea that he’d taken someone else away from the ones they loved didn’t sit well with him at all. It was definitely time to regroup.

“I didn’t mean to do that! I am sorry. Just…you didn’t like me before that. I thought it was because of my father.”

“You’d be right, too! Nearly getting poisoned to death will give you a long memory! And it wasn’t even because he was gunning for me…but because he was so pathetically incompetent that he managed to botch almost everything he touched! If Harry hadn’t shoved a bezoar down my throat at the last second, I’d have been a lot worse off than a bad bellyache and a case of the green-apple trots. Maybe I look at you and still see him, and maybe it isn’t fair, but that’s how it is. If I can make do with this arrangement, then so can you. Enjoying it isn’t necessary…and it isn’t expected, so don’t trouble yourself over it.”

The man was obviously irritated and irrational, and the comments about poisoning and incompetence were all new to Draco. He’d never heard or read anything of the like. Professor Granger-Weasley hadn’t hinted at a word of it. She’d been quite pleasant, and in fact, she was just about the only person who hadn’t looked askance at him since they’d met. It was hard to imagine her married to a man whose anger ran so deep that it had lasted almost twenty years.

“But I’m not him…am I? I never even got to meet him. You know more about him than I ever will…and you hated him. I know some things, mostly things anyone would know, but not much more than that. I don’t think I’m all that much like him anyway. Would you…tell me about him? Just things you remember?”

Ron turned his head away for a moment, staring at the chess pieces on the fancy crystal three-tiered set up that Hermione had gotten him for Yule long ago. It was hard to look into eyes that were earnest and calm, more determined and unguarded than the father’s had ever been. Maybe this boy had secrets, but the malice, the anger and bitterness that Ron remembered from a generation ago were just absent right now. Gone. This wasn’t that man, and this wasn’t that time.

“Yeah. I guess I could at that. If you think you want to hear those things…and I think I understand why you’d want to. Harry was like that too, years ago. He was always eager to hear about his folks. Even little stuff. I suppose you’ve got a right.”

Draco smirked mildly. It was strange…talking to Ron Weasley about these things, laden with tension, snatching a glimpse of the past from eyes that had seen it all before he was born. But those were all he could ever have. Windows. Snippets and tidbits, colored by others’ perceptions. They were worth having. Worth making peace for.

“You went here with him…tell me about that…please?”

“Heh. Alright. Well…let’s start with a story about the Hogwarts Express. So…”

 

TBC!!!


	29. Of Cobras and Breakfast Tea

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 29: Of Cobras and Breakfast Tea

 

Of late, since his equilibrium had returned, Harry had found himself instinctively rising early in the day, just as he had for the last fifteen years. Dreamless Sleep couldn’t be administered for more than a few weeks at the most, and Prewett had already started the process of weaning Harry from the potion. Dreams came, and the subject of Draco hadn’t been any further from his mind than usual, but somehow it stung a bit less just lately.

Was he a little melancholy? Perhaps, but given his situation, maybe that was a perfectly normal way to feel. For years he’d consoled himself with notions like, ‘…at least I had someone, just for awhile.’ It never really felt like it meant anything…until now. As soon as he’d acknowledged the ugly truth that Draco…his Draco…hadn’t loved him enough to stay, it felt like an anvil had been lifted from his chest. After almost two decades, it was strange to breath so easily all of a sudden.

Memories of Draco weren’t gone. Quite the contrary, they were with him all the time. When he woke, when he showered, while he dressed, and even while he ate what the elves brought for him. These were memories he had, and could continue, to live with. Something missing from him had come back after all these years. Resignation perhaps? There hadn’t been much to do lately but think of the past, and he’d thought of more than just Grimmauld Place these past few days.

What had become of the bright eyed boy in those old pictures from school? He’d had so much against him in those times. So many people around him had been hurt in the war and the conflicts leading up to it. So many killed. Cedric. Sirius. Albus. He’d pushed through so much loss, and so many trials, just to see things through to their end. The boy in those pictures had been braver by far than the man who sat looking at them now.

He’d spoken freely of it all with John Prewett. Questions that had dogged him for years had been voiced, and he could guess at answers, even if he might never be sure of the truth. Harry supposed that, just perhaps, it was love that really had been his undoing. He’d barely had it, or been conscious of it, when he was a boy. He’d been unloved at the Dursleys, a nuisance best kept a secret. To find love as an adult, and then have it taken away from him so suddenly, had hurt him in the one way he could still be hurt.

It was ironic. Love had saved his life, along with the rest of the world as well, and then, having fulfilled its purpose, it had slipped through his fingers and left him behind. It was the irony that stung the worst of all. So grossly unfair. It was a final insult to a teenager who had already been so wounded by life that he barely believed in anything. But that was just the way life sometimes was. Wildly unfair, fickle, and sometimes seemingly hateful. Was it really so wrong to have hidden away from that pain? Who would have wanted to feel those things?

The revelations he’d experienced, both alone and with John, had dramatically shifted his mood. He’d been pensive, restless, unsure of what to do and yet eager to do something. It was past time. He’d been lounging about for almost two whole weeks, taking in company now and again recently, but mostly just reading and thinking. The time for thinking was long past, and the time for deciding and acting had come. This was where Harry felt most alive…in the moment. Things had piled up in his absence, and needed doing. He had a responsibility to fulfill, like he had had years ago, and it was his part to meet that responsibility head on.

John Prewett meant well, and he’d tried to talk Harry out of it several times, but Harry was adamant regarding this one thing. He meant to finish out this year at Hogwarts, and then retire promptly afterwards. He wasn’t really sure what he might do with the rest of his life, but he would no longer teach at Hogwarts. Of that he was certain. It wasn’t that he didn’t love the place. He really, genuinely did, but this place that he loved deserved an educator that was both competent and healthy, not a man whose heart was so torn between the past and the present that he couldn’t maintain his own physical and mental well-being.

It wasn’t that he didn’t make a good teacher. Perhaps, in most regards, he did, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d come to it by accident, licking his wounds and choosing a dignified way to hide from himself all that he felt. He’d failed here in the one way that mattered most to him. He’d allowed himself to abuse a student…to hurt Draco’s son. It was inexcusable. To be capable of such a thing, even under duress…well…to Harry it meant that he had no business teaching anyone. Even Snape, with all his rancor and thinly veiled hatred, had never violated a student in such a way. Violence had no place at Hogwarts, and as far as Harry was concerned, neither did he.

There were things that needed doing first, of course. He needed a formal meeting with Minerva to declare his intentions. He needed to return to teaching his classes long enough to give Ron a break. The poor man was exhausted from keeping a double schedule, even with young Draco as an assistant.

And that was another matter. There were matters he needed to discuss with Draco, no matter how uncomfortable it might make the both of them. He’d stopped avoiding a lot of things, but Draco remained, by all reports, desperate to apologize in person. It was unkind, and immature of Harry, to refuse the boy that right any longer. Harry had apologies of his own to make. He also needed to make arrangements for Draco’s continued education. He’d promised to act as a mentor, and hounded by his personal demons, Harry had failed utterly. If he couldn’t find a suitable alternative, he would just have to finish Draco’s education himself, just as he’d originally agreed to do.

Harry moved to the small mirror and basin in the corner and straightened his dress robes, then went over his list of errands for the day while he smoothed his hair with a bit of water.

’First see John and let him know I’m well enough to return to my rooms. Then see Minerva and explain my intentions. Hmm…maybe Ron after that. He’ll be damned happy to go home at night again. I’ve got to see where he’s at with lessons before I can step back my job. I suppose Draco can wait for tomorrow if he’s busy. Good enough. Or as good as it’s going to get.’

A short stroll down the empty hallway in the hospital ward and Harry was at the door to John Prewett’s private suite. He heard the clink of tea china. It was still early by most people’s standard, and not yet breakfast time for the rest of Hogwarts, but John, like Harry, was an early riser by nature. At least they could share a spot of tea before Harry started his day. Harry tapped at the door and heard John’s welcome to open it, and he did so with a wry smile and stepped in.

“Good morning. I think I’m finally up to getting on with my life. Just wanted to stop in and…and…”

Harry stopped in mid-sentence. Left of the door and occupying one of John’s spare chairs, tea still in hand and eyes firmly fixed on Harry, Draco sat with a stricken look of sudden desperation. Harry floundered a moment, cursing himself for his own weakness. He really, really hadn’t planned on starting the day with this…situation.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll get back to you a little l-”

“No! Wait! Don’t…”

Harry wanted to move his feet, but he was trapped like a bird by a cobra’s gaze. Well…cobras didn’t generally have gray eyes and blond hair, but it was essentially the same. Draco had gone from calm and composed to instantly overwrought, and Harry wasn’t much better. John Prewett’s voice broke the spell of silence that had briefly dominated the room.

“Draco…relax. Harry…good morning. Would you care for a cup of tea? No one has to talk about anything in particular right now. We could just enjoy a cup before we all start our day. How does that sound?”

Harry couldn’t see a way to gracefully exit without wounding Draco, but the urge to flee was overwhelming. This was decidedly NOT the first thing he wanted to deal with today. In all honesty, he’d even idly hoped that he could put this meeting off until the last possible moment, but there was little other choice left now but to make some patently false excuse and just run.

Gray eyes. The last time gray eyes had pleaded with him silently…well, it was a lifetime ago. It shouldn’t matter so bloody much. Not so much that he’d let himself be as cowardly as he’d been before. Not anymore. Not now.

“Right. Well. I suppose. Tea it is. I take mine with-”

“Cream and sugar, as I recall. Right, then. Have a seat and relax, Harry.” John seemed surprisingly convivial, as if he was manifestly indifferent to the cloud of tension that seemed to metaphysically obscure the entire atmosphere of the room. Harry silently cursed that second of courage as he took his seat with a nervous smile.

’Bugger. Where the bloody hell are the Basilisks, Dementors and Dark Lords when you really, really need one? I miss the easy enemies. Fighting my own nerves is getting more than a little tiresome!’

TBC!


	30. Where You Belong

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 30: Where You Belong

 

‘That right bastard! Prewett! If it’s the last thing I do…I’ll get him for this! I can’t believe he..’

He’d left them alone.

With nothing but tea.

The man had doled out tea until the small pot was empty, and then excused himself to make more with the same perfect calm as before, but Harry had seen the glimmer of amusement in the man’s eyes as he’d turned to leave. John was no one’s fool, and he’d bloody well known how uncomfortable this would be!

Draco was sipping his tea periodically, eyes glued to the table, patently unsure of what to say and unwilling to risk doing anything that might motivate Harry to leave. One spoken word from either of them would annihilate the weird stalemate going on, and neither of them were entirely up to a lengthy conversation at the moment.

‘Bugger. I look like an ass! Grown man…struck dumb as an ox because he can’t deal with this shite! BUGGER!

“Good tea.” ‘Yeah. That was much better. Jesus, I can do better than this! Note to self…make John pay for this someday…in spades.’

But the silence was already broken, and Draco choked out a couple of nervous words before Harry could start again.

“I’m sorry…I…”

“No. Don’t.” Draco paused, lips pursed with irritation and general frustration. Harry quickly continued before this entire situation could slide out of control.

“You have nothing to apologize for. Quite the opposite, actually. I’m not saying your judgment was flawless, but I’m stating for the record that I had no business behaving that way around you or anyone else. You have my apologies, and I mean that. If I’d had any kind of grip on my emotions at all, none of that ever would have happened. So…I don’t want to hear any apologies from you. Understood?”

“But…but…I made you…remember things. I made you sick…”

“NO! Get this through your head now.” Harry’s temper flared for the first time since he’d awakened. This wasn’t at all how he imagined having this conversation, and in fact, he’d tried to avoid imagining it at all, but he was in no mood for leaving Draco with the wrong impression about the current state of affairs.

“You did not make me sick. You didn’t make me remember anything. I’ve always remembered, and I’ve run away from it all for a very long time. You made me stop running. I’m grateful. If I’d faced any of the things I should have faced years ago, you couldn’t have provoked me. I’ve been nursing the same old wounds for much too long and frankly I feel like I’m waking up after a long, bad dream. I’m not sorry that any of this happened…not anymore. I’m just sorry that you got pulled into this. It wasn’t anything you did, it’s just who you are. Can you understand that?”

Draco sat still, thunderstruck and silent. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and took a breath, and the sighed and nodded.

“Okay. I get it. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t mean those things. I was wrong. If you don’t want me to apologize…I won’t, but I was still wrong. About a lot of things.”

Harry could feel what was coming next. Something was going to be said, pushing the unspoken into the limelight, and he could feel the almost tangible presence of it in the room.

“You really loved him, didn’t you?”

And Harry smiled. It was a rather wry, careworn smile, but it was a smile.

“Yeah…I did. Didn’t count on anyone else, much less you, knowing about all that, but yes…it’s true. I can’t even tell you how strange it feels, saying this to you. It was a different time…then, and a lot of things made sense that that don’t now, and vice versa. For what it’s worth, no one has ever meant to me what he meant. No one. I’ve had a lot of years to sort things out, and I wasted most of them hiding from some of what I didn’t want to admit. I’ll never know what he felt, or why he made the choices he made, but if it matters at all, yes…I loved him with all of my heart.”

Draco’s eyes were piercing arrows of leaden gray, fixed on Harry’s green.

“I read things, and heard other things. Little pieces, here and there. There’s more…isn’t there? The reason he left…it was…me, wasn’t it? Because he wanted an heir. If he’d stayed, I wouldn’t be here. He’d be alive…with you.”

“Don’t. It doesn’t really matter anymore. The whys and the wherefores. People make choices, some of them work out fine, others don’t. I know he wanted to…wanted you…his heir…more than anything. More than me. Don’t ever think he made a mistake in choosing that. I knew him better than anyone alive, and I can promise you that he would have paid any price, endured anything, to have a family. Even with all the things you might have heard about the Malfoy name, I know, for a fact, that they valued their own family above all things. More than money, more than power, and more than respect. Maybe I’m guessing, and maybe I’m wrong, but I honestly think that it was losing his family that made him decide to make one of his own. It was what he wanted, so don’t ever think of yourself as some kind of accident, alright?”

“That’s easier said than done. I’ve always felt…like…like I wasn’t really a part of things. Like I was something that stumbled into place where it didn’t belong, and people were just waiting…for me to leave. Master Prewett…we talked about…some things. I never felt like I could tell anyone…anything. I had my reasons. I don’t think they were all wrong. But…”

Draco’s voice trailed off. Some things weren’t easy to say aloud. Especially personal things. It wasn’t that he hadn’t spoken of things with Prewett. He had, but some thoughts he’d kept to himself. He was dangerously close to sharing one of them. Spooking Harry Potter away again was not what he wanted, but learning to share of himself had created a hunger for more of the same. And there were so many things he’d wanted to say. 

Harry’s wry smile didn’t slip away. As tense as he was, he couldn’t just reject a young man who had fought hard to open up, even in the face of many rejections. Did it sting? Still? Yes, but not like he’d imagined. Not enough to leave him breathless, or without the ability to care about another. Not one who needed help at the start of their life, instead of half through it and still smarting from the pains of yesterday.

“It’s alright. Say what you please…what you want. I’ll still be here.”

Draco sighed heavily, hanging his head for a minute while he stared into the teacup.

“I…I came here because of you. I knew that…you knew him…better than people thought. No one…my grandparents…or my teachers…wanted to hear me, or see me. I’d read things…of his. There were parts…about you. My grandparents didn’t like him, but I’m pretty sure they expected some of his fortune. Turned out it was all held in trust for me. They got a stipend, and that somehow made them angrier than if they’d got nothing at all. They couldn’t take it out on anyone else, so it was all I ever heard about. They said…terrible things about him, and about Malfoys in general. I thought…I just knew you’d know more. I knew you’d tell me the truth. Or I thought you would. That’s…that’s why I got upset…when you wouldn’t talk to me. I thought you looked at me…the same way they did. Like you wished I’d never been born. I’m so sorry…about-”

“Don’t.” Harry’s throat felt like it would close up completely at any moment. It was hard to get words out, but they had to come. They were needed.

“Don’t apologize. You had your reasons, you made some mistakes like everyone else, but everything is fine now, isn’t it? I feel better than I have in years. I feel like I can…deal with life on its own terms again. None of that would be true if things hadn’t gone as they had. I have no regrets. Not one. Not about you coming here.”

Draco looked pained, and it was obvious that he was getting more emotional than he could easily control.

“But…but I heard that…you were going to leave here?! It’s true, isn’t it? You’re going to quit teaching…because of…all this? How can you say you don’t have regrets…when I made this happen? You should stay! You should…”

Harry maintained the calm that Draco needed to see, but only barely. “I should do what I know is right, and I haven’t done that for a long time. I’m flattered that you put that much stock in my belonging here, but being a good wizard and being a good professor are two different things, Draco. I came here to hide, a long time ago, because I needed a way to make myself forget about the past. This was a good place for that. I was busy, I had friends all around me, and I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done here…but this isn’t where I belong. I don’t want to go home because of you…I want to go home because I’m not afraid of it anymore. Why would I regret that? That’s why I’m thanking you. And don’t worry…I won’t be leaving until I’ve fulfilled my commitments, to you and to others. We’ll have some time yet, alright?”

Draco’s head was pounding from stress, and he felt vaguely dizzy. So many answers…so quickly. It was too much. It made him feel reckless, and more than a little confused. He wanted to object, or challenge this, but his instincts were at war with his rational mind.

“I…I’m…”

Harry looked nonplussed. “Yes?”

“I’m not sorry….about…the…”

The door creaked, and Minerva MacGonagall stepped into the room quietly, her demeanor grim in spite of the early morning hour.

“Professor Potter…Mister Malfoy. It is convenient that you are both here, and I can’t say I’m sorry to see you conducting yourselves like gentlemen, but I’m afraid we have something that we must discuss. Is Master Prewett available? I feel that he shou-”

“I’m here! Just bringing more tea.” John Prewett was smirking as he came through the door to his private offices, eyes twinkling furiously while he ignored Harry’s fairly obvious glare of irritation. “What was it that you wanted to talk about, Headmistress? Anything we can discuss right here?”

Prewett took his seat after freshening the various assembled teacups. Minerva remained upright, and removed an envelope from her robe pocket, straightening her glasses while she composed herself. Give the events of the past week, she had no personal desire to further complicate matters, but what she read here left her little choice.

“Mr. Malfoy. This quite directly concerns you, and it brings into question whether it is appropriate for you to remain here. I have records here from Durmstrang. Before I continue, is there anything regarding your time at Durmstrang that you wish to tell those of us assembled here today?”

Draco froze. He was almost certain of what that letter held. That it would come to haunt him here, while almost feeling as if he had a place he belonged…it was nauseating. There was nothing he wanted to say. There were many things he hadn’t told John Prewett, and this was among them, and for good reason. The sense of approaching humiliation was unbearable.

“No. I have nothing to say. If you feel that I shouldn’t be here, then just say so. I’ll go. I don’t want to discuss Durmstrang. Not now. Not…with anyone.”

Minerva frowned. This was too serious to go without examination. It wasn’t that she believed anything that came from Durmstrang, but some matters were too important to let personal feelings intervene.

“Mr. Malfoy…what is called for is an examination of your account of this. I understand that this may be a sensitive subject, but…”

Draco stood up, chin set defiantly, eyes blazing.

“I don’t care. Discuss whatever you want…I’m leaving. I’ve made my wishes clear. Do whatever you think you have to do. It’s none of my concern.”

The room was silent for a moment, all the parties at a complete impasse. Then Harry spoke, breaking the shocked silence, and his words stole the edge from Minerva’s fast growing outrage.

“Wait! No! What if…what if no one reads that letter here, but you tell me whatever you want to…alone. Then I’ll compare what you tell me first with whatever came from Durmstrang. No discussion with anyone else…just you telling me whatever you feel comfortable with. No more than that.”

Minerva ground her teeth, in the main because making such exceptions for a student went against every fiber of her being, and it set a dangerous precedent of allowing her demands to be circumvented, which no Headmaster or Headmistress should ever allow. The cheek of it all! Still, it was important that the air be cleared, and if she were to render any kind of fair judgment, Draco would have to speak his mind. It might as well be to Harry as anyone else.

“That is acceptable…even if your flippant attitude is not. We can discuss that at a later time. If…you will accept Professor Potter’s unusually gracious offer?”

Draco folded. They weren’t supposed to be reasonable...or accommodating, or even remotely fair. He’d been too upset to do more than goad them into dismissing him, but all those conversations with John Prewett hadn’t gone without some impact. Harry’s words about running away from one’s self were still ringing in his ears.

“Alright. Only with him. And only once. I am sorry that I’ve been rude…but please understand that I don’t want to talk about this twice. It’s…personal. I wish you’d let it stay that way, but if you won’t…”

Minerva nodded curtly. “Very well. Master Prewett, if you’ll come with me, we’ll remain in your office until Professor Potter informs us that this matter has been settled to his satisfaction. We’ll see what might be called for after that.”

And in a matter of seconds, Harry and Draco were alone, with a fresh pot of tea…again.

TBC!!!


	31. The Pendulum

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 31: The Pendulum

 

“Isn’t there a way…we could…bypass this? Couldn’t you believe that it won’t be what it sounds like? Tell them that…that Durmstrang made it sound like it was only my fault. It would be true. I swear it.”

Draco wasn’t looking him in the eyes anymore, and the tone of his voice wasn’t even plaintive. It was hopeless. Harry sighed softly. There were truths at play here that outweighed personal feelings, and Draco had long since shown that while his feelings ruled him, careful logic would win his attention…and his respect.

“I’d accept that…if that means anything to you, but it won’t change their minds about much. It isn’t about being against you, though. It’s that we have people to answer to. The Ministry, the Board, the parents of the other children here. I have enough influence to make this easier for you, but I have to be able to relay something that they can use to deal with this in a way that helps you. Just trust me that no one here wants to demonize you, and remember that anything written by an official from Durmstrang will be viewed with a skeptic’s eye.

Besides…you’ve already had a glimpse of the darkest parts of my life…it only seems fair. Ask yourself if whatever you may or may not have done stacks up against some of the colossal blunders I’ve made over the last two decades…and I’ve made some that were just stunning! At least I can promise you that you won’t be removed from here without your case being heard, even if I have to act as your advocate myself.”

Draco nodded, eyes still fixed at the surface of the table. 

“I understand. It can’t be helped, can it? I want to leave because I don’t want to talk about this. Master Prewett…and I…we’ve talked about a few thing I’d rather not have shared, but this…I don’t know. Do you really want me to stay? You’d do all of that to help me…no matter what I said?”

The answer came automatically. “Yes. I haven‘t promised anything I can‘t give. I can make sure that everything is looked at as fairly as possible. I‘m not promising to lie for you or do anything inappropriate just to help you. I am promising to help in any way I can. I can and will follow through on that. Alright?”

Draco took deep breath and finally raised his head. Grey eyes were boring into green, and Harry didn’t like the distraught timber of Draco’s voice anymore than he liked the nervous body language Draco showed. How bad could it have been?

“When it started…I was in my second year at Durmstrang. I wasn’t…popular…but I wasn’t that different from others. Better at schoolwork and spells, and really, until your third year, you’re really of no account there. The classes are mostly introductory, like here, but there’s more emphasis on physical and mental endurance. Exercise, long practice hours…and the usual punishments for failure. I didn’t get noticed much, because I didn’t fail. I just…didn’t feel comfortable around the others much. I still don’t.

My grandparents. They didn’t…like me…or want me…which is why I think they sent me to Durmstrang, even though I found out later that my father would have wanted me to come to Hogwarts. Their house is beautiful. Everything is old, because theirs is an old family. My rooms were very lavish, and it isn’t like I wasn’t looked after, but it was just me, and them, and an elderly pair of house elves. I was always alone…or reading, because they left me alone as long as I was quiet. I used to be locked in my room when they were cross with me, sometimes for days or a few weeks, with elves to bring me food or books. I just couldn’t leave my suite. That was all. They were cross with me a lot, usually over small things, but a lot more so when I tried to argue with them. I know that’s part of why I don’t…deal well…with others. Sometimes I think I just don’t know how. I make it up as I go along, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’d just rather avoid it entirely.

Near the end of second year…I started noticing…changes…in myself. The same things everybody notices. You can’t live in dorms and not know that everyone else is going through the same thing, some early, some late. That didn’t really matter so much, but it caused…complications. There was someone I started to ‘admire’, but I hadn’t thought anything of it more than that. I just started to smile more when they were around, or stare at them overlong when they weren’t looking at me.

The reason I’ll tell you all this…it’s because you’ll understand part of it…at least…at least the start of it. I’m more like my father than anyone knows…even if I didn’t know that then. His name was Yves. He was in his fifth year, and he was the rising star of the Quidditch team. I was a complete fool for him, smiling, gawking, and trying to impress him by bragging about my classwork. When he asked for a little help with his classes, I fell all over myself trying to toady to him. I didn’t even fully understand why I was doing his homework every night, but I did it just the same, because he’d smile, say a few kind words, and let me speak to him in public, which, for a second year student at Durmstrang, is just unheard of. 

I know what you’re thinking…what you must think. He didn’t do anything. Not really. He knew that I idolized him, even if I didn’t yet understand why. He didn’t…he wasn’t like me. He wouldn’t have had anything to do with me if it hadn’t been for the assignments I finished for him. Unlike here, relationships between students are strictly prohibited, because it’s an all male school, and they take pains to discourage ‘friendships’ they think might go to far. They teach that it’s weakness, and I still think…I think Yves’ classmates, his real friends, pushed him into it…into making a joke of it.

That’s how I got my first kiss. He lured me into it, saying he was grateful for what I’d done, while his friends were hidden. He said…wonderful things…I thought my chest was going to explode, because nothing had ever felt better than hearing those things from another person. As soon as my lips touched his, he pulled away, and the others popped into view. They laughed…called me every name they could imagine…and he laughed the hardest. 

The most amusing part…I think…is that I didn’t want revenge. I’d figured out what I wanted, and what I was, even if they’d made it an insult. I pined for days, and because I was young, and blind to the truth, and had more skill than most, I found a way to get what I wanted. I wanted him to want me. Everyone knows the warnings that come with love potions and spells. I knew them all by memory. I didn’t care. I cast one anyway. I wasn’t careful about the strength of it either. I wanted him to kiss me again, this time with no one laughing. I thought that would make it real.

I didn’t want to be caught, so I’d taken care to learn it wandlessly. I could do that even then, but not as dependably as now. I didn’t use it in classes because I didn’t want to be seen failing at anything, so only a few people even knew that I had the potential for it. All anyone had seen me do was levitate small objects, or conjure light. I think…no…I know I botched the spell.

Yves…fell under the spell immediately, but he wasn’t loud about it, he was subtle. It seemed like it hadn’t worked at all, until he cornered me in an quiet hall. Whatever I did wrong…all I’d conjured was a violent ardor. He was tearing at my clothes when they stopped him. I was screaming for help, because I’d never imagined more than him kissing me, and I was terrified of him…like that.

He was expelled and sent home in disgrace. They couldn’t prove it was me, or even properly identify the spell because I’d mangled it so badly. Too many people had seen him in the hallway, with me screaming and trying to crawl away from him. It was the kind of incident that they dread there, but even if they suspected, and I don’t think they did, they couldn’t prove that I was behind it. They did blame me, though. The older students, the faculty, and others.

Yves was popular, and as they saw it, I must have led him on at the least. Since I was the victim of an attack, I was spared Veritaserum testing, or Legilimency, but between the public knowledge that I’d…I’d ’favored’ Yves…and the suspicion that I’d caused the incident somehow…I was a pariah by the end of the year. When they wrote the incident up, they kept most of the details out of it, so the official record only shows an ’altercation’ with an older student. I know that the paper they have in the other room…is probably the testimony of someone who was there, repeating the rumors of the time. That I’d seduced him, or bribed him for his favor, or blackmailed him into seeing me somehow and then turned on him when he didn’t do what I wanted.

I didn’t do any of those things. I’ll swear to it, or take Veritaserum and repeat what I’ve told you. It’s just…what’s pathetic is…I accidentally cursed him with a failed love spell, got him expelled, and probably ruined his reputation or his life…because of a kiss. I hated myself so much for that…for the blindness to what he really wanted, for the stupidity of still wanting him after he mocked me, for the failure to even cast the spell right…and for doing all of it…because…because…”

Harry had listened, rapt and attentive, brows furrowed with concern from start to finish, and in the flow of words he’d lost the sense of where Draco’s emotional state lay. It came back to him when he noticed Draco falter with the words, wide eyed and alternately gasping for breath or gritting his teeth while he restrained emotions that were building past the point of his ability to control them.

“Draco…it’s alright! You don’t have to…”

“I just wanted someone…anyone…to WANT ME! Something…something is wrong…with me…because no one…no one has…ever wanted me. Not here…not really…and not anywhere else. WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!”

The young man in front of Harry still had enough control of himself to remain still, but it was obvious that in the course of the tale, Draco had passed a line he’d drawn a long time before, with a question that had never been answered on the other side of it. Harry had seen more than a few meltdowns in his time, and more than one or two intemperate youths, and always he’d helped, with words, with directions or explanations, and he could give those now as well, but distance didn’t feel like the answer.

Draco had buried his head in hands, choking softly while he restrained what would have been sobs if he’d allowed them. Harry stood up and walked around the table quietly, not even remotely comfortable with what he was about to do, but unwilling to compromise once he made his first step. These were hurts he knew well, knew in himself just as Draco knew them. Desire, abandonment, confusion, and the haste of rage. He knew them all intimately, every one of them. He’d been older, and he’d known far more than a kiss, but he knew these feelings…these questions…and he only had one answer.

The young man was muttering despondently to himself still when Harry hesitantly touched his shoulder. Grey eyes, rimmed with red and still wet, snapped upwards when Harry’s fingertips made contact. The question in them was hung between pleading and defiance, and Harry winced inside, hating the little echoes of another time and another person that bedeviled him then, but he still got the words out calmly.

“It’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with you. I believe you…and I’ll vouch for you if…”

There was a faint flash of disbelief in Draco’s eyes before the young man leaped up and Draco’s arms were wrapped around his chest, a blond head buried in Harry’s chest. The muffled choking noises and the shake of shoulders left Harry gritting teeth quietly and bitterly hating the close contact that only reminded him of what he hadn’t had in so many years.

Only a minute or so passed before Draco quieted, his head still firmly pressed into place. His breathing had softened into even and rhythmic breaths, and his arms had softened their death grip on Harry’s chest. Harry wasn’t sure when he’d taken to stroking the back of Draco’s head, but the difference was comforting. His lover of years ago had kept his hair so much longer than this. It was something to remember, to be reminded of the present by, and it was oddly calming to know that this was a very different person despite all the similarities. 

A face upturned and grey eyes suddenly unsure and pleading. An impudent and desperate angel. Harry’s breath stopped cold when he sensed the question hanging on the tip of Draco’s tongue. He tried to stop the creeping sense of panic in its tracks, and shift things with a few words, but words didn’t come in time.

“When you kissed me…you were thinking of him. Even if you think of him…couldn’t you…”

‘Dear God! John was right…he wants…me!’

And the world screamed for an answer to be given, like a pendulum swinging between the reality of the now and the whispers of another, better time, and Harry’s heart swung with it.

TBC!!!


	32. Silence And Peace

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 32: Silence And Peace

 

_A hallway in Grimmauld place. Two decades blurring backwards to a time and a place that had to be reconciled as history. Another lifetime, almost another Harry._

_“What the hell do you mean!? I…I can’t fucking believe what you’re saying! Explain this shit to me…this fucking minute!”_

_“Harry…I have to keep the Malfoy line alive. There’s no one left but me. I need to marry to have a legitimate heir. It doesn’t mean I can’t be with you…it just means that we can’t…we can’t live like this…together. I hoped you’d understand…and it isn’t that I don’t want to be with you…it’s-”_

_“It’s that you could kiss someone else…fuck them…marry them…but not me!! What the fuck kind of warped place do you come from…that you think I’d accept that!? You think I could do that? Is that all this is to you!? You right, fucking cunt! I’m not doing this because it’s fucking convenient! I love you, even if you hate hearing it, you prick fuck!”_

_“Harry…please. This is what I want to do. I want a son. We’re talking about a history that dates back to the time of Merlin, and it means something. I hoped you’d understand, but I have to do this. It isn’t about what I like, or anything else. It’s a duty…like fighting Voldemort because you were destined to do it. This is what I’m for.”_

_“DON’T! Don’t you dare compare the two! I only wanted a normal life, never any of this. The world isn’t hanging on you, and no one’s going to die if you marry some bint you’ve never even met! How could you…say these things…like they’re sane?! I’m not going to be some dirty secret that you slip off to meet now and again! I didn’t…I didn’t do all of this…for that! FUCK YOU! Go find someone who’ll marry you for the fucking money and spit out brats on command! Fuck off back to your manor and your fucking elves! I hope you fucking die!”_

_“Harry…I…”_

_“I SAID I HOPE YOU FUCKING DIE! GET OUT! Get out of my fucking house! I can’t believe I let even let this happen! I can’t believe I even touched someone who’d…who’d do this! GET OUT!”_

_“Harry…”_

_Fist connected with aristocratic nose faster than Draco expected, and he slid down the flagstones of the hall, eyes tearing sharply while the broken nose began to bleed sluggishly._

_“Fine. As you wish. Goodbye.”_

_Harry stood in the hall trembling with rage, eyes bulging and mouth twisted in a sneer of rage, barely holding back the urge to fling curses instead of insults. Draco slumped down the hallway and stairs, and the door to the street opened and closed a moment later, and then Harry was alone._

_He’d held back the one thing…too private to even admit to someone who had abandoned him this way. Anyone who would have asked for such a thing didn’t deserve to know what that last moment with Voldemort had been like. That Harry had clung to life and deflected that final curse only because of love. A love that had been built on a lie, and had been revealed as nothing more than Harry believing in someone who had never really intended to stay. His cheeks burned with humiliation while his breath heaved in the silence of Grimmauld Place._

\------------------------------------------------------------

“I…I can’t…be that…for you. Please…understand…” Harry choked out words that he could cling to in the face of desperation. Draco was fool’s gold, like his father, a glittering prize that would disappear. A moment’s fancy that he had no right to, and wouldn’t take even if he could. He’d always known what right and wrong were, even if he’d sometimes failed to listen to the conscience that guided him. In this, this time, he did not fail. 

Draco’s grip slackened, and the head that had been upright and boring its eyes into Harry’s soul just slumped forward, tired and listless against Harry’s chest. The voice was a muffled whisper against his robes.

“I know…I knew. I’m not really a student. I’m old enough. I like you. You’re good…and brilliant…and kind. Why wouldn’t I…want you? But you’re his…and I’m…I’m just me. I just thought…once…wouldn’t hurt. I want to remember something I wanted…and wouldn’t be sorry for…later. Please…just…something. No one would…”

“No.” The word was half strangled by the emotions that were struggling inside of him at the moment, trying to claw their way to the surface, but it was surprisingly easy to hold fast and repeat himself.

“You said it yourself. You know I couldn’t do that. It isn’t about what anyone else would know. It’s about what I know. I can’t be that for you. I’ll help you…I’ll be your advocate…or even your friend…but I can’t be that. It isn’t just because you’re a student of sorts, or not worthy of it…or any of that. Don’t think that. You know exactly why I can’t…wouldn’t.”

Draco remained quiet, comfortable against the warmth of Harry’s chest, refusing to budge for a long minute. With a sigh, he stiffened and backed away, and Harry let his arms fall to his sides with a matching sigh of relief. Draco couldn’t quite manage to look up, his face discolored by high emotions, and his eyes flicked upwards while he tried to look away.

“I…don’t want them to see me…like this. Could I go? Just for now? I know you need to tell them what happened. I don’t want to…I don’t even want to hear it again. I’m…I’ll be alright.”

Harry nodded while he composed himself. He’d have to speak to Minerva and John shortly, and in all honesty the morning had already left him feeling drained and ready to crawl to his suite for a long rest. Still…Draco looked desperate to leave, and Harry understood why. Swallowing so much pride…to say those things. It couldn’t have been easy, and frankly it would be hard to remain composed or detached while they were in the room together.

“Go ahead. I’ll talk to them. We’ll work this out. It’ll be alright for now, and if there are any further questions, I’ll relay them to you myself. Acceptable?”

“Aye. Thank you.” Draco paused by the door, his hand clenched on the knob, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood while he spoke. “I’m not him. Not in any way that really counts…and I don’t want to be…but I’m not sorry that I asked…what I did.”

Before Harry could let those words soak in, the door was opened and shut and Draco was gone. Harry slumped back against the wall, letting his breath out slowly, rubbing his temples to let some of the tension slide away.

’John had it right along. This isn’t good. I hope I let the kid down easy enough. Hell, I hope he understands that it’s completely out of the question! I can handle…more…now…or I think I can, but Merlin! There are limits!’

\------------------------------------------------------------

Draco hurried down the hall, still faintly dizzy from what he’d done. ’Merlin’s Name! What was I thinking? Master Prewett was right…I’m no good at this…kind of thing. I can’t believe I…I said…or did any of that!’

He paused and flopped back against a wall, catching his breath while his thoughts raced. Harry had been…incredibly decent. Speaking openly of Durmstrang, and of the event that had set him apart from the rest of the students…it had been intoxicating. Cathartic. Sweeter than any wine or candy by a thousand fold! No one had so consistently proven that they cared enough to even listen to him, not for eighteen years, and now Prewett and Harry both allowed an openness he’d never imagined. To say things like those, and to go without being judged in haste. It had made him reckless.

He’d almost spoken of the book. He’d wanted to…for the first time. The book he’d found in that attic trunk…possessions left from the night his parents had died. His only solace during the summer he’d returned home after second year. It had been an enigma first, locked and sealed, taunting him with possibilities of what might lie within. For a boy who’d hated himself so very much at that time, it had afforded a perfect and desperately needed distraction.

And then he’d opened it, and a comfort was his that he’d never known. It was cruel in a way, because it wasn’t more than a feeling, and ultimately only teased him with the suggestion that that feeling was possible, but he HAD felt loved, even if only while poring over a single, dusty volume in his room alone.

The forbidden-ness of it! To look through a window into the past, to know with clarity the exact words and thoughts of a parent he’d never known. And then there were the memories. The reminiscences of a time and a place. The regrets, the wishes and dreams, the hidden words that could never have been spoken. He’d read them all a hundred hundred times.

It had seemed simple enough…coming here…to meet Harry…to go unnoticed while he unearthed tidbits about his father’s past. It hadn’t worked out that way at all. It was all so terribly complicated now! Harry Potter wasn’t supposed to be some exhausted and careworn soul, still nursing a wound that had been done to him before Draco had even been born! He was supposed to be vital, swift, sure and powerful! He was supposed to be like the man he’d seen in the duel, at peace and untouchable in his Art and Craft. He was wise and good and kind beyond all reason…

And when he’d offered to hold someone who hurt, Draco had snatched at it madly, asking for more than he’d meant to, and more than he’d dared to even idly imagine. There were thoughts…the kind that came to a person when they closed their eyes and let their mind drift free…and those thoughts had sometimes brushed against the idea. The boy who’d come to Hogwarts had hated introspection, and still did, but had learned a little along the way. Draco knew himself just well enough to know the thought had been there. A guilty little secret that been pushed aside more than once. 

He’d done it...unconsciously perhaps…but he’d done it just the same as then. Preening…showing off his intellect…striving to attract the attention of someone he’d read so much of and could only dream of in years past. His father’s diary had described a paragon…a man who stood above the world of the small and the petty…and who had been wronged. Was it so wrong to have wanted to know someone like that? To have something to believe in again? He hadn’t expected to find a shy, reclusive and ultimately flawed man, broken by the very circumstances that had made it possible for Draco to meet him! It had been…hurtful…when Harry had kept him at arms length, deliberately distant for reasons that were perfectly understandable now. It had stung to be pushed away by someone he…

Someone he wanted. It stung now too. Not enough to make him angry, but enough to make Draco sick to his stomach with the realization of what he’d wanted. These thoughts were too much. More than he wanted to be burdened with. He wanted his book…and quiet. He wanted to lose himself in dreams of another time, and the tantalizing hint of proof that a person could feel those things for another. He wanted to forget, and forget he would, at least for awhile.

Draco pulled away from the wall and walked purposefully on. He might miss a class, but at least he’d have some peace or a chance to regain his composure. It had been a terrible mistake…to let those feelings out. It would have to be undone…some amends made…but it wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t speak of the book, or it might be taken from him, and that would be a loss he couldn’t bear, a final insult added to the injury that had been his life. To be teased with hope and then have it plucked away. He could never tell how he knew the things he knew…not and be sure that he’d still have one solace when he ached and hungered for a feeling he’d never known from another person. It was too much to risk.

Perhaps…if it could be shared…just for a short time. Or better…if something real took its place, but that hadn’t happened yet, and didn’t show any signs of manifesting anytime soon. No…it was too much to risk. It was his by right, and only he could have opened it. Didn’t that mean that fate had intended it for him? There was no closeness for him here…just like everywhere else. He would keep his one comfort to himself. He knew for a fact that it was better than nothing.

They’d call for him via magic if he was needed, and what he wanted most was peace and silence. Facing rooms full of others with these chaotic feelings running loose…wouldn’t do. Warded in his room, his trunk was spelled safe and opened, and the book received his blood and name…his birthright. The tiny lock clicked open and the world of the now was dead to him…while the all encompassing feeling of being loved, utterly and without condition, washed over his senses like a cool breeze in a stifling room.

 

TBC!!!


	33. New Beginning

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 33: New Beginning

 

Harry composed himself quietly for a few moments before joining John and Minerva in the small office in the back of the suite. His mind was still a tumult of possibilities and complications. John had been right! Harry had dismissed the very notion of such a thing, certain that it wasn’t even possible, but he’d been proven terribly wrong, and knew now that he had allowed himself a large ‘blind spot’ regarding Draco, solely because of who he was.

It wasn’t as if Harry hadn’t seen this kind of thing before. First crushes and ‘puppy love’ were normal things to encounter in a career that involved so many young people, especially those hovering on the cusp of adulthood. It was a thing dealt with most by the younger, human members of the staff, including Hermione and Cho Chang. The admiration for an instructor sometimes mingled with the somewhat murky realm of desire, and Harry had always been careful to give no accidental impression of returned affection, or encouragement for anything beyond a good academic performance.

Only with Draco had he been blind to it, obviously because the very notion made him far more uncomfortable than merely dealing with his Draco’s surviving child! He needed John’s advice, privately, as soon as he read that letter and relayed what Draco had told him to Minerva.

‘God…did I do anything to precipitate this? Could I have wanted to…unconsciously? No…can’t be. I never wanted this! Steady on, Harry. You can deal with this too. Hell of a first day out of the ward, but at least I still have time to sort these things out before picking up classes again. Let’s get this first part over with right now…then worry about whether it’s still possible to work around him.’

Harry tapped at the door and was invited in, stepping in quickly and taking the remaining chair while Minerva plucked the letter from the opened envelope and held it out for Harry.

Harry scanned the letter quickly, confirming Draco’s suspicions about its contents, feeling more than a little irritated that this was necessary at all.

“Gods…I haven’t read anything with such a high handed tone since Snape was here. Minerva, I know this has a certain importance, given the Ministry’s interest in all things Malfoy, but really…this is more than three quarters speculation at the motives and possible causes. I’ll be frank. It does match loosely with what Draco told me, and I believe him, since he made no pretense of innocence, but this letter isn’t much more than character assassination. If that’s the quality of supervision at Durmstrang, they bloody well ought to be closed!”

Minerva sipped her tea and leaned back in her chair, the picture of perfect calm. “I’m well aware of this. I didn’t get the chance to say it before, but I can’t take anyone who wrote this entirely seriously. Really, Harry…to accuse a twelve year old of crimes of this sophistication! Almost unthinkable, but it does need to be addressed, and it is serious enough to warrant asking the young man to explain it. I take it his testimony was satisfactory?”

Harry bristled still, but was mollified by the fact that Minerva hadn’t put much stock in the pompous ass who’d written the letter.

“Quite. I understand why he wouldn’t want to share it, but it seems to boil down to this. He had his first crush on another student, a popular, older athlete, and the other student used that for a bit of free help with their studies, then deliberately humiliated Draco in front of others by making sport of it all. What happened after was patently wrong, but nothing as foul as this makes it out to be. 

“He didn’t want revenge. He botched a love spell, wandlessly. The results were unpredictable and violent. He wound up assaulted by the object of his affection, scared out of his mind, and was rescued only because others heard the commotion and pulled them apart before anything worse could have happened. The other student involved was expelled for nearly committing rape, and Draco’s primary wrongdoing here…the only thing NOT mentioned or even alluded to in the letter, mind you…was that he was so ashamed that he denied everything. They couldn’t trace the spell, and we all know how Durmstrang hushes up anything that might mar their reputation. They listed it as a common brawl and left it at that.

“Given the other student’s popularity, and the cruel nature of the prank, the suspicion of the other children and of some of the staff fell on Draco. He was a pariah before the end of the term. It fits perfectly with the evidence of stunted social development, the lack of trust for other young people, and even his disrespect for the integrity of instructors. Reading the venom in this parchment shows us what kind of environment he was subjected to…for five years! We’re talking about a very gifted, very insecure young man…and this is the kind of trauma that can last for years. I hope you accept my word as valid on this, and given that he seems willing to go through Veritaserum testing if necessary, providing that I’m the person attendant at the time as a witness, I’d swear that what Draco has told is the truth.”

John nodded sagely. “I’m inclined to agree. I can’t reveal anything told to me in confidence, but I had guessed at a traumatic social event somewhere in the mix. There have been hints…mostly topics he seemed very uncomfortable with. Throw in what we all know about his upbringing, and I’d say that this makes a lot more sense than the prattle in that note.”

Minerva sighed with relief and placed her cup on the desk with an air of satisfaction. “There will be a statement for you to sign, Harry, but I think that will be all I’ll require. I find it much easier to believe in a love struck youngster doing something terribly foolish than a calculating seducer wreaking havoc at the age of twelve. Nonsense…the things that come out of that school! I’ve more than a few things to see to this morning…is there anything else that either of you would care to discus before we start the day?”

John shrugged his shoulders mildly, but Harry quickly interjected. “Yes, and I really should say it to both of you in an official capacity while we’re here together. I mean to retire at the end of the year. I’m feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time, seeing things clearer, and I just know this is the right thing. It isn’t that I don’t think I’m able to do this, or that I can’t meet the requirements, so please don’t try to dissuade me. I haven’t lost my affection for this place, but I’ve been using this job as a way to hide from…things. That’s done with as of now. I’ll meet the commitments I’ve made here, and then I’m done. It isn’t subject to negotiation. I’m sorry if that seems callous, but I have to be firm about this. This what I want to do.”

Minerva stood up and smiled ruefully at her former pupil. Uncharacteristically, her hand stretched forward and mussed Harry’s hair while he waited in silence for her answer.

“Still a stubborn and troublesome boy. I’d hoped you’d change your mind about this. You will be sorely missed, but, if that’s truly what you want, there isn’t anything to be done for it except to start compiling some names that might be suitable for the position while I still have time. No point in making goodbyes now though. We’ve still got some time left. Let’s try to make this as memorable a year as possible, shall we? I’ve go to go, but I’ll see you as soon as I’ve drafted some papers for you to sign. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Alright…and thank you for understanding. As well as for accepting my convictions about Draco on faith.”

A minute later, Minerva was gone, and Harry waited until he and John had exhausted the topic of his decision to leave Hogwarts before he brought up the matter that concerned him the most.

“You were right, John. About Draco.”

“Hmmm? Ahhh…something he said while you were talking, wasn’t it? I’ll give you this…for a lad with poor control of his temperament, he plays his cards close to the vest. Especially around you. I was wondering if he even knew it himself. How did you handle that?”

“Well…what else could I do? I had to tell him that it was out of the question. I couldn’t possibly be that for him. Leaving aside that he’s only barely of age, and that I’m supposed to be his teacher, AND that I’m past twice his age…he’s Draco’s son! I didn’t realize he’d fixated on me…in any romantic way. At this point, I’m not sure I can be any kind of mentor at all if he has feelings like that. I did tell him that I’d finish the year as promised, but please tell me you can help make sure he puts that notion to rest. I’d like to get back to work in a few days at the latest…and this…this I do…not…need.”

“Harry, Harry, Harry. Take a couple of deep breaths and relax. It’s been a complicated morning already. No use in getting worked up no sooner than you appear in public again. I think we both agree that, if Draco can’t make his peace with your requiring a certain distance, and not just for propriety’s sake, no one would blame you for stepping back from this. I might commend you for being very clear headed about this, in spite of all the little entanglements along the way. In the meantime, I’ve got potions at the ready, and you can even arrange a half schedule if you like. Split the classes for the younger years off and just teach the upper level courses. Poor Ron could still make it home at night, and you could free up a little more time to concentrate on yourself and how to work with Draco. Oh…and have you had any thoughts about what you might do after the year is over?”

Harry shrugged with an air of resignation. “Not really. Some travel. Fix up Grimmauld Place and make it a proper home. Maybe a few charitable appearances. Nothing fixed. I just know it’s time to start living my life again, and some of that has to start at home, not here. We can talk more later, and throw a few ideas around then, alright? I just think I ought to at least see Ron before classes get fully underway, so I’ve got hurry to catch him.”

John Prewett nodded sagely and chuckled. “Go on, then. Off with you. We’ll see you tonight for the potions, right?”

“Of course…and thanks…for everything else. There are still some things I’d like to talk to you about. They need to be said, worked out, given thought to…not buried away waiting to hamstring me later. I’ve got a few days before I actually start teaching…and we can make use of them while I’ve got the chance. See you tonight.”

John Prewett watched Harry leave, then cleaned up the teapots and china with a wave of his wand. It was an uncanny thing, the way fate sometimes threw a person the catalyst needed for change, and the results were unpredictable and even frightening. It was difficult enough for the young to see their lives suddenly change, but for the mature, it was far more traumatic. Youth itself was a time of change and experimentation, a time of trial and testing, but as one aged one developed a sense of continuity and familiarity with the way one felt and thought and lived. Harry Potter might not think so, but John Prewett knew that he was in the presence of a very brave man. A man as flawed as anyone else, with his own fears and insecurities, but a very brave man nonetheless.

It was as much as one could hope for…that Harry might make some peace with the past, and make the very most of the rest of his life. It would be for the best if young Draco could be persuaded not to complicate things further…but given the subtle and yet stubborn nature of the young man in question, John had serious doubts about whether Draco would quickly abandon any affection he might feel for another person.

’Damn. And just when I’d hoped things would quiet down for awhile. Hmmph. I expect I’ll need a lot more tea in the office to keep up with the traffic through here this year. Alas…such is life.’

TBC!!!


	34. Something Amiss

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 34: Something Amiss

 

Harry sighed with contentment while he slumped into the comfortable chair in his quarters. The cup beside him was for evening coffee, not whiskey, and the past two weeks had been a set of good ones, especially when graded against the past month's debacles.

Ron was still handling the classes for first and second year students, and he really did shine when working with younger children, but the later years’ DADA courses had cried out for Harry’s return. Not that they’d been handled badly, but there were spells that were just hard to teach…and some of them required an instructor who knew them well and could explain them easily, which neither Ron nor Draco could have done. As a result, while basic dueling had remained on track, some of the spell knowledge had slid behind for the sixth and seventh years, and Harry had made himself busy catching things back up, using his newfound measure of free time to find ways to bring the situation back under control.

Draco, interestingly enough, had become indispensable, and had actually been remarkably pleasant company of late. There hadn’t been any reason to dismiss him as a teacher’s aide, and he was still of great help to Ron, and Harry could make use of the spare time this gave him to prep a handful of spells just for Draco’s benefit, so it all worked out quite nicely. Draco had been quiet, if a little sheepish, the first few days after the encounter in John’s quarters, but had quickly developed a comfortable working relationship as soon as the last of the papers on the matter had been signed and sent off, likely happy to see the matter put to rest and done with for good and all. 

There was still a certain tension that hung between them, and Harry accepted that it would probably remain, but Draco hadn’t broached any subject of the sort since that day, and more than met the expectations that were placed upon him as a student and as an assistant. John had assured Harry that Draco had been more than a little overwrought that day, and while he couldn’t break confidences told to him in private, he could suggest that Harry relax and let the matter of Draco’s feelings rest quietly.

Easier said than done, however. There had been something…dizzying and terrifying…in what Draco had said, and it had gnawed at Harry like a canker since. That warmth…that smoldering and immediate desire, pressed against him and waiting for an answer. It hadn’t really missed its mark. He’d felt it…and had promptly, instinctively pushed it away, just as he ought to have. It was the right thing to do.

So why did his stomach turn at the memory of it?

’God! Get over it, Harry. You’re lonely. That’s what it is. That’s all it is. You haven’t done anything…with anyone…in longer than that kid has been alive!’

And the dreams had been back. Not with the same clarity as before…not at first…but they had been growing more coherent with every passing day, despite John’s brewing skills. Having made a certain peace with his past, it didn’t bother Harry nearly so much as before, but it was still…disconcerting…at times.

Especially in the morning. No whiskey…no nightmares…less grief…and constant reminders of his Draco. It all added up to an uncomfortable and embarrassing fact, one which he’d felt obligated to share with John in session. His libido, long pummeled into submission by a desire to forget and to be left alone, had finally woken up. Most people, be they young or old, had some sense of the sensual that hung about them on a daily basis. Harry had buried his, making sure that he never diluted what he’d felt years ago, never letting anything take away from what had been so precious to him.

But what would one do after letting go of that past? It wasn’t gone. Not really. All those memories were still precious, and important, but they‘d ruled his life too long. Letting them start to fade was a fine thing, but what was replacing them? Vaguely inappropriate thoughts…or regrets…about someone with a painful resemblance to the person he’d loved a long time ago?

It was unnerving to wake in the morning with a certain clarity regarding his dreams…always of his own Draco years ago, still as lean and fine and handsome as he’d been then…it was entirely another matter to hover on the border of wakefulness with flickering images of warmth and closeness tied to an emotionally stunted adolescent rambling through his brain! Worse, it was simply wrong in every possible sense, and completely opposite everything Harry held to be moral and decent!

‘You’re thinking too much. Only makes this worse. There’s plenty that needs thinking of other than this. Got classwork, three students in the first seventh year course need additional work on defensive conjurations, seven in the sixth year courses, and about the same in the fifth year. That’s not even considering the chapter on offensive transmutations next week. They’d want to see that stone-to-fist I used against Draco last month…’

And then it was Draco in his thoughts again. Bugger.

The knock at the door was the very essence of relief, breaking his drifting train of thought entirely and dragging him back to the here and the now. Harry sipped the coffee and brought the cup along with him as he made his way to his door. Coffee wasn’t nearly as popular with most folks as tea, but he’d grown to like it in the evening now and again…more so than ever now that he’d abandoned whiskey.

“Yes?” As Harry opened the door, Hermione smiled and greeted him cheerily.

“Hello, Harry. Just thought I’d nip in before going home. Touch bases on a few things and see how you were doing. Holidays coming up soon enough…we can expect Uncle Harry’s traditional visit?”

Harry waved a hand and set the coffeepot to pouring a second cup while he let Hermione shut the door and find her seat.

“Of course. Wouldn’t dream of missing it. Haven’t seen ’the Brood’ since summer. How’s your family holding up lately? I know I kind of set things off kilter with Ron taking on extra courses. At least he’s getting home nights again though.”

Hermione grinned, looking girlish in spite of her years. “A little hard work is good for him. He loves teaching flight and Quidditch, but we both know it’s hardly a challenge for him. Besides…even if he grumbles a bit, he loves teaching the young ones and we both know it. As long he‘s home nights there are no complaints worth rehashing. But how about you? Things seem like they‘re calming down a bit. Getting on well enough with our resident star pupil?”

Harry mentally flinched, annoyed by the reminder, but it really had become a part of his everyday reality now. It wasn’t as awful as all that, and he knew it. There were…complications…but nothing that terrible.

“I suppose. I’d even go as far as to say that I’m getting used to this. He seems to be blending into Hogwarts’ life fairly smoothly as well. Even Ron doesn’t mind having him underfoot and helping with classes…and that says something right there! As for me…you know how it’s been. I feel well, even with the dreams. They haven’t stopped since I came off the Dreamless Sleep. Some nights more vivid than others. They don’t hurt though. Just so you know. Not really…not anymore.”

Hermione’s glance was a soulful one, full of unspoken sympathy. “And you’re still serious about leaving here at the end of term…aren’t you? You’re really going to reopen Grimmauld Place? I ask because…if you’d prefer, we wouldn’t mind you staying with us awhile. I know the kids would love it, and it might seem a bit crowded at first, but you know we’d both love having you there.”

“That’s sweet of you to offer, really…but I know what you’re thinking. Rattling around Grimmauld Place like some attic ghoul wouldn’t be healthy for me…I might backslide or get too maudlin on my own. Won’t happen, love. I had tearing the place apart and giving the whole house a facelift in mind. Plenty of work to keep me busy, and that’s not including visits here and there. I’ve been looking at things…differently…lately. I might take a few lecture offers…or some charitable appearances. Mostly…once I’m settled in…I think I’ll try writing some DADA material. Might take a few years to get something comprehensive enough for use as a textbook, but I certainly know the subject well enough…and Merlin knows it needs an upgrade. We’ve been using the same books for near a century and a half!”

“Okay, okay.” Hermione shrugged mildly and smiled. It was enough that Harry seemed sure. If he truly believed in what he was doing, it was beyond her to gainsay him.

“As long as that’s what you really want. I’ve just gotten used to Harry the Professor...now I’ll have to get used to Harry the Writer. I did want to ask a few questions about Draco though…call it ‘teacherly’ concern, but he’s been a little off his par just lately, and I wondered if you’d sensed anything out of sorts.”

That part was news to Harry, and even if Draco wasn’t the topic he’d choose for evening thoughts over coffee with Hermione, it did pique his interest.

“Well…he’s been quiet to be sure, but hardly anything that seemed wrong. Polite…maybe a little distant, but he’s a bit stand offish sometimes and has been since he got here. I haven’t seen anything that would suggest a reason for concern. Why do you ask? How did your class with him tonight go?”

Hermione sipped her coffee slowly, giving careful thought to her observations before voicing them.

“You are his mentor again, so it seemed appropriate to mention it to you. He just seemed distracted. Like his mind was somewhere else. His work was above par, but he didn’t really participate the way he normally does. At least in my class…he always has questions…which is good because half the time we don’t really have answers and the point is to refine and create better questions. Today he just seemed absent. It reminded me of something, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Harry gave a little more thought to the comfortable state that had formed between Draco and himself in the past weeks, and while he couldn’t think of anything wildly out of place, Draco had been more than a little quiet just of late. Had he been too eager to enjoy a quiet working arrangement between them…and missed something of significance in the process?

“Alright…I’ll look into it. I trust you enough to take your word that something’s a bit off. I’ll see if I can nudge some conversation out of him tomorrow. He might be a little hesitant around me…since…you know how well last month turned out…and if need be I’ll see what John thinks of this. Good enough?”

“Good enough, love.”

Their chat drifted to lighter things. The children’s foibles, Molly and Arthur’s well-being, and the latest papers Hermione was preparing for publication, and an hour had passed before they knew it. Harry made his peace with the dreams he knew would come that night, as he had every night, and that was that.

It was probably going to be necessary to bring the subtle changes in them to John’s attention, and Harry couldn’t imagine anything more unpleasant than such scrutiny over his traitorous subconscious, but there you had it. Another day would bring conversations that were fraught with tension for all involved, and that was simply the way things were. 

Draco had seemed calm and reasonable, no sign of potential trouble on his face, and Harry hoped that that was the way things genuinely stood. It had been hard to find an equilibrium since that day in Prewett’s office, and Harry was loathe to risk the fragile one they’d built, but he couldn’t very well ignore Hermione’s sensitivity to the subtle signs of something amiss.

Even if he dearly wanted to.

 

TBC!!!


	35. The Man In The Mirror

The Echoes Of Yesterday…by Samayel

Chapter 35: The Man In The Mirror

 

“What in the hell? What do you mean he’s gone?”

Harry was mildly annoyed, not because he hadn’t suspected that something was up, but because Draco’s sudden reported absence was an immediate inconvenience. Perhaps he should have intervened sooner, or pushed harder with question about Draco’s recent moody silences and occasional absences, but the boy had seemed diffident and comfortable, smoothly claiming that nothing was wrong and that he was spending extra time with his studies. Harry had taken it at face value, based on the fuzzy notion that he had a certain rapport with Draco that others did not. It was specifically annoying to think of himself as having been deceived. 

Ron answered the question while Harry reviewed the last couple of days.

“Well, he wasn’t in any of my classes today, not that I need the help that badly anymore, but I figured I should find you first since you’re his mentor. I asked a few questions on the way here and he hasn’t been seen since last night. He seemed a little distracted the last few days, but that was all I noticed. What do you think? Check his suite, maybe?”

“Yeah…that first. Damn…this isn’t like him at all…or at least not like what I’d expect from him. That stubborn pride of his usually means he wouldn’t let himself be seen sloughing off work. Something is off about this. It just isn’t right. C’mon, mate…got time to tag along?”

“Well…sod it…I can’t very well leave with a student missing, even that one, can I? Tell ya what…if we can’t find him before I’m supposed to Floo home…well…break out the map.”

Harry shrugged agreement as they walked the halls together. The Marauder’s Map was rarely used now, and then only when a student couldn’t be easily found or accounted for quickly. It was a fine fallback, and had prevented lost students from suffering undue trauma more than once over the two past decades. He hadn’t had to use it in almost two years, but it was a damned useful thing to have around in a pinch. He still had his old cloak and a few other useful tidbits at his disposal…just in case a situation arose…like the time one of Hagrid’s ‘pets’ had escaped and had to be lured from the lair it had made in one of the Ravenclaw lavatories before it could be captured and tranquilized.

Draco’s rooms, as it turned out, were warded with ’safe’ wards that didn’t cause injury…but blocked entry completely. The spells were well above the average level of ward that Harry had dealt with for years…but not beyond his ability to crack. It just didn’t bode well that Draco felt such a need for privacy beyond what was normally granted to any student who didn’t reside in the dorms.

The room was empty and still, but still furnished with all that might have been expected, including schoolbooks piled upon Draco’s desk, and his trunk and other belongings still in place. At least it appeared as if he hadn’t deliberately left the school for good, but it did raise the question of where he had gone. It was possible to make one’s self scarce fairly easily at Hogwarts, given the size of the place and the number of enchanted places one could stumble into.

“Alright, Ron…tell you what…before you head home…stop by the infirmary and ask John Prewitt to expect a Firecall from me later. Tell him Draco is missing…and how long he’s been unaccounted for, and let him know that if I haven’t sorted this out in another hour or so I’ll have to organize a formal search. Then just head on home…I can handle the rest, mate.”

“Got ya covered, Harry. No problem. If anything too complicated comes up you’ll feel free to give a shout, right?”

“Yeah. No worries. We have enough people here to do this without keeping you here all night. Besides…the map’ll likely sort this out shortly enough. Give ‘mione and the kids my love then.”

“Right, then. See you tomorrow, mate.”

Harry made his way back to his suite with a brisk and business-like pace, then opened his warded trunk, wherein he’d always kept anything that might be too valuable to risk losing. He had other trunks, but only this one was routinely spelled and warded shut. The map was just beneath his old cloak, still folded and sealed in a heavy envelope for its own protection.

It was always ironic now, to be a professor and yet swear that he was ‘up to no good’. Honestly, he hadn’t used the map for anything but the rather noble purpose of rescuing the occasional student in near twenty years, which hardly qualified as mischief, but that was what it took to activate the map’s power, and that was what he solemnly swore.

Always, the map was a vast blur of moving marks and names, covering every level of the castle, and a certain measure of the grounds as well. He’d started with the towers and upper levels, working his way slowly to the dungeons and catacombs, and it took time to manage, since so many moving blips could easily distract his eyes. Even so, Harry was long used to the map and scanned his way across its surface carefully, becoming more and more concerned as Draco’s name didn’t make an appearance.

It was near the bottom that he found the name he was looking for...the catacombs. As far below as one could go…and not al that far from where Harry himself had strayed a few times in his youth. Draco was alive, but motionless, and that was enough for concern. A Firecall to Prewitt and a swift assurance of Harry’s ability to deal with the matter, and Harry was on his way to the dungeons with annoyance flickering through the concern rather quickly.

’This had better be an emergency. He couldn’t have picked a nice nearby location to have a problem? I hope he’s alright and all…and he is an exceptional wizard in his own right…he can’t be that badly off, can he? Hell…if he’s missed an entire day of classes, something isn’t right. Damn, I wish we could Apparate in here!

Classes were out for the day, and dinner had already been served, so much of the hallway milling about was already done, and Harry’s journey was too quiet for his tastes…too easy to reflect on the memory of the last time he’d scoured the map for a Draco Malfoy. How poorly that had turned out. How that moment had changed the balance of power between them. 

He’d nearly killed Draco with a single uttered spell, fearing for his own life, full of righteous wrath. Not so different from how they’d finally parted, with Harry losing his temper and Draco mumbling a goodbye through a bloody mouth and nose, while Harry had been full of that same righteous wrath, certain that he had been the one wronged. Maybe he had, but it excused nothing.

Had he really changed so much? He’d mishandled Draco’s son the same way…even with twenty years to sort himself out and know the right from the wrong. It was at the heart of why he was leaving this school behind. What moral center could he claim to have, and still be so selfish, so quick to vent anger when he was finally cornered? The man wasn’t really so much better than the boy he had been, and that was a shameful thing to think, but there you had it. The same rashness that had cost Sirius his life, the same anger that had caused calamities and accidents in his youth, and the same quickness with which rage flared in his heart and hand. So…maybe the younger Draco had brought it to the surface like no other could…but that excused nothing.

Harry clambered through a portal into the catacombs, already slightly winded from the journey through the school, but unwilling to slow his pace. A hasty Lumos and a check of the map showed that Draco was still in the same position as before, and Harry kept his wand out as he moved through the cavernous hollows beneath the school. So many odd things had happened down here over the years that Harry knew to keep himself ready at all times save when he was in the safest of the major hallways and rooms above.

The passage wound to and fro, and while he was awfully near the chamber where he’d faced the basilisk so many years ago, he couldn’t have been farther away from it in fact. The map showed the great chamber to his left, and yet he’d walked almost half an hour to get to where he was at now. The gloom was oppressive enough that he couldn’t make out anything more than twenty feet away, but there was a faint twinkle ahead, and Harry knew he was quite close to Draco’s position.

He approached with caution, calling out, only to hear no reply. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose with superstitious worry while stepped forward into what was likely another large chamber, and he couldn’t make out any details at the far end of it, but Draco was supposed to be less than perhaps a hundred yards away. 

“Draco? Are you alright?”

The light from his wand penetrated the gloom as he moved forward…and the walls of the back became clear. There was a crude archway, no door in place, and within was a room of discarded items, but seated clearly in the center was Draco Malfoy, cross-legged on the floor with his back to Harry, who hurried forward until he could see what had captured Draco’s attention. That stopped Harry cold in a heartbeat.

Draco Malfoy was staring at the image of his father, whose gaze had fallen to Harry, smiling affectionately and speaking words that Harry could feel more than hear. So like the dreams he’d lived with, so clear compared to misty memories. A healthy handsome young man, dressed sharply and confident in his stance, lean and tall and full of life. Until Harry’s gaze flickered just a few inches to one side as he stepped forward, silent and almost entranced.

The mirror. The Mirror Of Erised. This was where it had wound up. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t his Draco of years ago, just as it hadn’t been the parents he’d never been allowed to see. It was just a whispered promise reflected in glass. How it had wound up here Harry might never know, but the battered old thing had been tucked away with who only what other objects, and would have to be moved again. Harry winced while he avoided staring at the image in the mirror and knelt beside his charge. Draco was slack jawed and smiling, past the point of crying with joy, just smiling dreamily and staring into the mirror’s depths.

“Draco. It isn’t real. I know. You have to come away from here. It’s Harry…I don’t know what you see in there, but it’s just an illusion.”

Draco’s mouth closed, and it was easy to see that he was having trouble pulling his head away, he seemed utterly disoriented, and haunted when he turned to speak in a near whisper to Harry.

“I…I don’t care. It’s…it’s beautiful. I want this…leave me alone.”

“You know I can’t do that. People have wasted away to nothing in front of this mirror. It only shows you your greatest desire…but it can’t make it real. Take what you can learn from that, and come with me.”

“Ha…my…greatest desire. That’s…that’s what it is? What if that’s better than what I have? It makes sense…that something…like this…would be a lie. It…feels so…good. I can hear…feel…what it means…I don’t…I don’t want to go anymore.”

“Can you stand up? I’m going to put the cloth back over the mirror, and when I do, we’re leaving. Do you understand?”

Harry rose and stepped between Draco and the mirror tugging the heavy cloth down from the edge and letting it cover the glass. His own sigh of relief was palpable, because even until he’d slid the cloth down, his own Draco, tall and clean and fine, had been whispering nothing but forgiveness and love to him. Small wonder it had hooked Draco’s son, who hadn’t had even the small cushion of years of friendship with others. He could see the tortured look on Draco’s face when he turned back. It hurt visibly to watch another in the mirror’s thrall, even while his own, older, wounds stung just as deeply as ever.

Harry held out a hand. “Come on. It’s alright. We’ll go back together, okay?”

The journey back was in silence, and Harry was aware of Draco’s staggering sense of embarrassment. The discomfort radiated off of Draco in waves, and it was a long walk through quiet hallways before they reached Draco’s door. His face was still turned away from Harry’s, eyes boring into the floor.

“I’m…I’m so sorry. My feet keep trying to take me back. I can’t…what…what will happen to it?”

“I’ll move it somewhere else, possibly off the grounds entirely. It will be moved tonight, so don’t think going back will accomplish anything. Draco…don’t feel bad. I was once drawn to the mirror’s image too. It was a long time ago, but I haven’t forgotten it.”

Draco pushed his head against his door and breathed slowly while he answered, looking as properly tired and wan as a person who hadn’t likely slept of eaten an a day would look.

“I was looking for things from the past…things from old stories I was told. I…I found it a couple of weeks ago. I kept coming back…just a for a few hours at first…but I just couldn’t stop. It makes such sense…nothing that good could be real…but it was nice…for awhile.”

“You’ll be alright…its power fades fast once you’re separated from it. Years ago…I saw my parents…happy to see me, alive and well, proud of me. The Headmaster found me staring into it and talked me away from it. I thought it had been destroyed since then…back in the war. They must have tucked it away down there when they cleaned up after the school reopened. What you felt, whatever you saw, it was powerful only because it meant so much to you. Don’t be ashamed of having feelings. It wouldn’t have such power if you didn’t. I have to go…it’ll need taking care of immediately, but you’ll order something from the house elves and get some proper bed rest, won’t you?”

Draco nodded shakily while opening the door to his rooms.

“Yes. I’ll…I’ll be fine. Don’t you have more to ask? More questions? Am I in trouble? Do you…want to know what…what I…”

“No. No trouble. Getting entranced by an artifact we should have dealt with more carefully is not a crime. You don’t have to tell me anything. What you saw in the mirror is for you and you alone to learn from.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed a few times in silence, and then he stepped through his threshold and closed the door all but for a foot’s space through which he could look out, still avoiding Harry‘s direct gaze.

“Thank you…Harry. Good night.”

And the door closed quickly and quietly, leaving Harry in the hall alone, well past dinner hours, with a task that would take some time and thought still in front of him.

It was just as well that he didn’t let his thoughts linger over what Draco had seen. Draco slept the night in an exhausted stupor, his memory flickering through the images the mirror granted him, and Harry had dominated them all, from first to last, not as a friend with a comfortable distance between them, but with a lover’s ardor, and the knowledge of his greatest desire, just beyond his reach, was barely tolerable even to Draco’s sleeping mind.

TBC!!!


	36. Foreshadowing

Chapter 36: Foreshadowing

 

Draco sat in Prewett's office, waiting quietly for the tea to finish. He could almost feel the question coming before it was asked. The incident with the mirror still loomed in his memory, now that he was free of its influence, and it mortified him that he'd been so easily gulled by an encounter with a magical artifact.

He'd visited other landmarks of his father's time at Hogwarts. Walked the Quidditch Pitch and even soared above it alone on a borrowed broom. He'd found Moaning Myrtle…and extracted from her, between tearful sobs, the story of his father's nearly mortal injury at Potter's hands. He'd even found the aerie where his father had watched while Severus Snape killed Albus Dumbledore.

But the finding of the mirror…that had been his downfall. He'd only used his freetime gainfully the past weeks, surpassing all expectations, until he'd stumbled onto that storage chamber and pulled away the cloth that covered the mirror's face. In truth…he'd seen other things at first, equally desirable. His parents…alive and beaming with love…overjoyed to see him. And then he'd seen Harry…not broken with grief or enraged past the point of reason…but serious, sober, kind and warm…looking at him with the kind of smoldering hunger that he'd only read of in one book. A book he didn't dare share with anyone for fear that it would be plucked from his grasp and leave him alone.

John Prewett sat down across from him and handed over a cup of tea, still piping hot, then settled comfortable into his preferred chair.

"Well…you've had some adventures, haven't you! We'd only just sorted out some difficult things…and you managed to stumble onto one of Hogwarts fine old legacies! Stop looking so glum, lad! You aren't the first to be pulled into that mirror's influence…not by a long shot! You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to…but I think by now you know I wouldn't think ill of you for sharing anything with me in honesty."

Draco stared into his tea without enthusiasm. In the day since that embarrassing interruption he'd alternately dreaded and hungered to speak of what he'd seen…but it wasn't Prewett he wanted to voice his feelings to with such candor. Since then he'd felt a malaise come over him…sapping his will and enthusiasm except for what he'd briefly brushed against in the mirror's surface.

"Master Prewett…the mirror…did the mirror really show me…the truth about what I desire most? It couldn't be wrong, could it? It really only shows what the looker feels and wants? It has no power to actually deceive or dissemble, correct?"

John Prewett felt a fragility in Draco's careful question, something that hinted at great discomfort with what Draco had seen and experienced. It seemed right to answer with a similar caution…to reassure Draco that, no matter what he'd encountered, it wasn't something that couldn't be spoken of at all.

"That's largely correct…yes. It shows only the reflection of the desires of those who gaze into it…but do try to understand that desire is a fickle thing. People can want all kinds of things, and want them dearly, and then find that their desires are quite changed in a surprisingly short time. In some of the stories I read about the mirror years ago…there was said to have been a man who visited the mirror each year, saw what he desired, pursued that goal each year, and yet saw another desire entirely each year he returned. That's more of a statement about people in general than about the mirror, but I'm just saying that if you saw something discomforting, you needn't fear that it is written in stone." 

Draco sighed and finally sipped the tea. "Thank you. It doesn't change the basic truth. I saw what I currently desire most. It was real in that sense. That was what was inside me…and it was only made visible by the mirror."

"Well…in some…" Prewett had meant to finish a few thoughts on the subject, but Draco blurted something out before he could go any further.

"Harry. I saw him in the mirror. Not as a professor…not as a friend. As a lover who desired me. That is what I saw."

Prewett wasn't entirely shocked by the information…he was only surprised that Draco had volunteered it so easily! For a moment he wasn't entirely sure what to say. When Draco suddenly looked appalled by the silence and appeared ready to jump up and run away, John gathered his wits and disarmed the situation as best he could. It was a fine step forward in getting the lad to speak honestly about his feelings, and it was a matter that needed addressing as well.

"It took courage to say that. Don't leave. You have nothing to be ashamed of…in any respect. Not falling prey to the mirror, and not for feeling something for Harry. You've shown great candor and uncommon honesty…and I wouldn't disrespect that by speaking to you like a child or barking commands about what you ought to think or feel. This needed speaking of."

Draco eased back into his seat, eyes wide and showing incredulity. "You mean this? You…you already know of what I…" He couldn't quite bring himself to say it again so soon. It had been more of an unexpected outburst before.

"Yes. You aren't inscrutable or veiled in secrecy, Draco. I'm not blind to what's been unfolding…and I saw it emerging before we began our counseling, so don't think I've gleaned this knowledge because of something you let slip here. I've seen how intense your emotions can be when it comes to Professor Potter. For all his faults, he's a good person. He tries where others often refuse to place their efforts. A person, any person, would be hard pressed to dislike him…that's why so many people show such loyalty to him, in spite of his occasional failings. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say that a great many people love him…without conditions or expectations. I say this because…you may expect something from him that he can't give…and a number of us have grown rather fond of you. No one wants to see you hurt…but…"

Draco had sat listening raptly, then blushed a furious scarlet at the frank conversation about his wants. "It isn't something he can't give. You're wrong. He could…if he wanted to. He just…he…he won't. Not can't…won't. Not for me." 

There was anger and frustration in his tone…and John heard it as plain as day. Draco was a minefield of prickly emotions he wasn't adept at handling…and this was happening somewhat faster than he'd imagined. He'd envisioned having to coax Draco to this point, but the mirror seemed to have pushed Draco to acknowledge his feelings far faster than any lengthy series of conversations ever could have.

"Perhaps. You may be right. Do you have any thoughts on why he wouldn't? Any grasp of the reasons he'd give you? There is some merit to Professor Potter's feelings on the matter. He is, after all, the other party in this. His feeling are as valid as your own. I hope you can accept that the opinions the two of you have about this state of affairs are irreconcilable."

Draco sighed and slid into an almost uncharacteristic slump. It was common enough for other teenagers, but this young man had an aristocratic bearing and a sense of self discipline that was exceptional. It spoke volumes that he'd let his posture lapse so openly. The hushed voice when he answered also hinted at a sense of hopelessness that John found a little worrisome.

"I know. He does not feel what I feel. He is too old. I am too young. I became a student and it would be inappropriate. People would say terrible things if such a thing came to light. Those things, all of them, are irrelevant, Master Prewett. They really are…to me. But there is a reason that I cannot change, or dispute. He…he belongs to my father. In his heart. I can see it. We spoke…a little. Much was implied. He forgot nothing…even though I came here thinking he might have. I am a poor copy, at best. I can't…I cannot…be…what he wants. If he looked into that mirror…I am not what he would see. It would always be my father. I wondered why he never solved my parents case as an Auror…and now I know what came of that. That he would do that…live with that…even after all that had passed…even after I was born…I…a living testament to what he'd lost? Is it so wrong, that I would want him? I know how deeply he cares for others, and even if he isn't what I had imagined him to be before coming here…in some ways he is more. More human, more real, more alive. Not some memory or legend written of in a book. If I had known…that I would cause him so much distress…I think I would never have come here. None of this is what I intended."

"You did want to meet him, though. You insisted upon it quite fiercely at the time. He is the foremost Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor in the world at present…and probably one of the better ones in the history of the school and possibly the world as well. There's no shame in perhaps mistaking the legend for the man. Our Professor Potter earned his reputation…but not without cost to himself. I won't scold you for looking on him with admiration or affection…but I'm glad you can see that, owed to his experiences, he isn't in any way suited for a relationship beyond friendship. It's good to see that you see it for yourself, though. It shows a clearer mind than many…"

John Prewett's voice trailed off when he noticed the glazed expression that come over Draco. His own magical senses began to tingle with the realization that something was very, very off. Draco sat, suddenly slack jawed , then seemed to be fighting something inside himself, like a compulsion. Prewett Accio'd his wand from the counter just in time to see Draco's face twist into a grimace while he choked out a few inexplicable words.

"No…n-not…I won't…give it…away. MINE!"

Draco just as suddenly slumped to ground gasping for breath, eyes clear and bright. John rattled off several spells to diagnose physical and magical condition…finding only elevated heart rate associated with exertion. No magical trace of anything could be found.

"Draco! Draco…can you speak? What just happened? Are you alright?"

The young Lord Malfoy, looked unsure of what to say, slowly standing back up and looking around as if he expected to see someone else in the room besides the two of them, then apologized politely.

"I don't know. I'm sorry for the outburst. I didn't mean to worry you. I have…I have things to see to this morning before classes. Please forgive me. I promise that I'm fine."

Prewett hadn't seen any evidence of ill health or danger…but his first instinct was to ask Draco to stay and answer more questions. It troubled him that Draco seemed entirely normal now, if slightly evasive, than he had a mere minute ago…but what could he do beyond be certain of physical health? If he pried too hard and too fast, Draco would be sure to clam up and avoid speaking of it. He settled for leaving the subject open and ending their morning with an invitation.

"You seem fine, at least by the reckoning of my spells, but I'd prefer to be certain you were well before sending you off. You've never shown any sign of fits like that before. Draco, if there's anything wrong, anything troubling you or causing you issue…you do know that you can tell me about it, right?"

The young man had already moved toward the door, but turned back with a smile that didn't seem feigned. "I do. It is the first time I could say that truthfully. It was just a difficult conversation. I'm still unused to this, but please don't think I am ungrateful. I am alright. If anything does trouble me, please know that I will seek you out. I hope you will excuse me?"

John felt mollified…and the words seemed genuine and without guile. It was a sore subject they had broached. The lad had started to see sense in Harry's refusal to indulge in any kind of 'forbidden romance'…and that couldn't have been easy. He nodded his permission and let Draco head off into the halls to begin the day. John gathered the tea and saucers by spell and floated the lot of them back to the small kitchen, then made ready to prepare potion stocks, unless there were interruptions. As he worked he contemplated Draco's seeming fit, and what on earth it might portend. It had seemed similar to the visions he'd seen others endure, or possessions by spirits, or perhaps just a fit of confusion. It had already faded away by the time he'd had his wand up…so brief had it been…but it set him ill at ease to know that something was amiss and he had no answer for it as yet.

TBC


	37. In The Diary of Draco Malfoy

The Echoes Of Yesterday....by Samayel

Chapter 37: In The Diary of Draco Malfoy

 

Draco may have cursed himself for falling prey to the mirror's power, but what truly worried him was the unpredictable impulse that had almost made him reveal his beloved book on more than one occasion. In Prewett's office he'd nearly felt...compelled to speak of it. It was uncannily like the compulsion he'd felt in Harry Potter's office...the day he'd nearly broken the man's spirit. It was a day that still filled him with guilt and chagrin. He had been the author of his own failings...again...just as he had at Durmstrang. 

So many things came to him so easily, language and spellcraft and knowledge. These were things where superb intellect and natural power gave him a potent advantage. But in matters of the heart...he was a hopeless naif! Always...when he desired someone...to see him as attractive and good and worthy of their affection...always he failed them...sometimes spectacularly. And in the end he returned to his book. The one time and place he could always be sure of. When his face burned with shame, when his heart ached, always the book gave comfort. In its presence he felt cherished, wanted and loved...as though warm arms were around him and no doubt or fear could reach him.

This was such a time. The words in the book were once strangers to him, but now he knew them by heart, and if he'd wished he could have recited its contents to others word for word with scarcely a misstep. It wasn't that the words needed to be seen again...it was that feeling he craved, that sense of belonging and closeness. When he opened the book he felt it all around him, even as he went through the meaningless ritual of scanning the text, it was the time spent in the presence of that feeling that made him return again and again. It wasn't the words that drew him, but he read on just the same.

_“Being an Account of My Own Thoughts and Musings...by Draco Malfoy, Esq._

_That looks so high handed in the old script. Makes me want to laugh at myself. I'm doing this...this diary...because of Claire, my wife. We've been together almost a year now. Little Draco is two months old. Our child. My child! It barely seems believable that I could have been a part of making something so miraculous, so tiny and perfect and utterly right. I'm scarcely worthy of such an honor. I've often wondered if the universe slipped up in letting me be a part of anything so good or so beautiful._

_Claire knows the anniversary coming bothers me. Not ours. I told her...almost everything. All that was important. We were married out of pureblood convenience...but I have been more fortunate than anyone I've ever known. She is gentle, and kind, and possesses empathy and compassion far beyond what would be expected of her for her age. She told me to do this. Because it was so hard to speak of what I've done, or of the mistakes I've made. She did not like to see me weep by the window at night, or toss in my sleep when memories haunt me. The parts I told her...did not upset her at all. She felt for me, truly. She cared enough to only desire that I find peace._

_The mother of my child. An utterly amazing young woman. When I think of her, of the support she has given me without complaint, even when she learned of my failures and their costs, I feel a great need to guard and protect anything this wonderful, this pure. I want to be the kind of man she deserves so very much. I want to be the kind of father mine should have been. I want to make things right, and never fumble or falter again._

_But I must put the things that follow this prologue down before they choke me, lest they pull me back into despair. I can't afford to fail now. Others depend on me for their well being. I understand that now. I accept it. I know that I have a responsibility to the people around me that care for me most. I will not abandon them or leave them sorry that they embraced me or were entrusted to me by chance or fate. I will not let that happen again._

_\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

_I told her about Hogwarts. About my father. The Dark Lord and the Mark. The cabinet and my scars. Snape and Dumbledore in the tower. The war. What happened to my parents. I told her all of it, and she cared for me still. And I told her about Harry. Of all the things I have done, the questionable, the foolish and intemperate things I have done, what I did to him I regret most. She knows that he was my first and only love. She knows what I am...or what I would have been if I hadn't felt the pull to seek a wife and a child...and she knows why. All this she forgives. Is it any wonder that what I feel for her is adoration? If I have chosen a prison because of my nature, I am not miserable in its confines, and that is because of her. Little Draco will have a truly blessed life, with a mother as good as she._

_Harry. It hurts even to write his name. I must have written it a hundred times. Letters I tore up or couldn't bring myself to send. He is the living witness to my cowardice. I wronged him. Savagely. If I told him everything, he would forgive me. I know he would. That would be crueler to him than even this. He is that good. That decent. That appallingly Gryffindor. He would forgive me, and I would never be able to resist him. And he wouldn't be able to resist me. What we had was too intense, too powerful to ignore or lay aside. We can't be together now. I would never be able to meet these responsibilities if I let myself have that closeness with him._

_It changes nothing, though. I still desire him. He completed me. Made me whole. He opened my heart like no other could have, made me care and want. Made me love. That prophecy he told me of...the one that Dumbledore claimed was about love...was true. He IS love. So much of it that it bursts from every pore of his being. He has the gentleness of a saint, and the strength of a great warrior. The passion and drive of a madman, with the vulnerability and innocence of a child. There is no finer person I have ever known. I was fortunate just to have his presence around me, guarding me, protecting me, comforting me. That I betrayed someone so good, so just and fair and generous, is a crime I know the universe will make me answer for someday._

_I loved him madly. I never said it to him once. I showed it...in the ways I knew how to, but the words terrified me. I was barely eighteen. It wasn't that long ago. It was a terrible time in my life. I'd lost everything that mattered to me, and he gave me something worth more than all of it combined. I could feel it flowing from him. He'd try to say it sometimes. That he loved me. I hushed him and wouldn't let him say it so many times. How I loved hearing it, and hated it. I thought... How do I say this? I imagined that if I dared to let it be real, to say it aloud and let it simply be, that it would be taken from me like everything else was. That the Gods or nature or whomever might see my hubris after the things I had done wrong and punish me by destroying what I loved. I was scared._

_Perhaps I was superstitious. I'd seen torture and death and struggled to survive until he found me dropped in his lap as an extra mouth to feed. I'd been horrid to him before then, and still he showed me mercy. When I was terrified he offered me comfort, in spite of all I had ever done to earn his contempt. Somewhere deep in me there is still the belief that I have no right to happiness. I haven't earned it. I struck upon it by chance...twice. No one could or should be so fortunate without some cost. At that time, then, I believed with certainty that I'd been given some brief fleeting gift that would be torn from me painfully. I'd already lost so much, and hurt so badly. It was better to tear myself away somehow, make it end on my terms, anything but have something so fine and good ripped from me like everything else._

_\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -_

_I never told him that I loved him. Or that he had made it possible for me to even admit that such a feeling was possible. That is my regret. He's with the Aurors now. Fighting the good fight even though he deserves rest and peace. He has endured more than anyone should have, and still he struggles to protect others. I want to be that noble. That worthy of respect. I want to tell him all of this, but if ever do, he'll look on me with forgiveness and with that gentle, noble heart and those glorious green eyes, he would tell me that he understood. And I would crumble. I have no doubt of it. I would fall on my knees and beg for him. I would surrender everything to be by his side even for a moment. And I would hurt those I now care for, just to have what I desire. I would commit another act of cowardice. I would be less worthy of his affection then ever before._

_So I cannot ever tell him what I feel. If we should meet, I can never tell him these things. I suspect I was right after a fashion. This is what I deserve. I am being punished. Maybe it is by the universe, or the Gods, or perhaps it's by my self. It doesn't matter how it came to pass, but this is my penance. This silence. This journal to expiate my sins._

_Claire was right, as she so often is. I feel better. I've thought these things while brooding, dreamed them and woke weeping, but I've never spelled them out so clearly. The relief is palpable. At least I can do this. When it grows too heavy for me, I can vent into this, and then go to look upon my infant child._

_However it came to happen, whatever wrongs I committed that brought me to this day, I can say that where I stand now is a comfort to me. A salve for my wounds. I look at those perfectly formed hands and feet, those beautiful eyes, and I swell with pride. I have a son. A beautiful and perfect son. I have a reason to endure, to last and prosper. I have a wife who gives her heart and soul without a thought, just like Harry did, and a son I owe my very sense of self worth to. I won't fail them! If I have done one thing right in my entire, sorry existence, it was bringing that life into the world._

_I'll write of other things. Later. There is much to do, and much to be concerned with. These are still dangerous times, but I'll leave apart a portion of my evenings for this, if it will give me this sense of peace. I'll write it all, even if no one ever sees it but me, and it will last even after we're all gone.”_

_TBC_


	38. Chapter 38

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel 

Chapter 38: In the Diary Of Draco Malfoy Part 2

Draco the Younger, Lord Malfoy, knew nothing in his mesmerized stupor. He cradled the book in reverent hands, and did not know that he stood with it so held. His mouth moved as he read the words like a litany, half known from memory and half as his eyes flicked across the surface of the page. What moved him was no part of himself, but another will entirely. He could not recall the door opening or closing behind him, nor was he conscious of his steps down the hall. His feet were sure on his path, but still he never lifted his eyes from the pages. 

 

_I've mused over these things a thousand times before committing them to paper. I hope I give them the eloquence they deserve. I hope the words don't fail me during these few hours I have to myself. I owe his memory more than some half hearted rambling._

_Of Harry, I have seen what no other has known or seen. I glimpsed who he is beneath the overwhelming burdens of duty and fame. I'd count myself lucky if I had the right to claim luck regarding something so distant from me now._

_Even his weaknesses are strengths. Not like mine. He needs another to make him all that he is capable of being, just as I do, but in him the need makes him seek out others to aid, to protect, to care for without complaint. In me it only brought selfishness, envy of others, isolation and pain. Until I truly knew him. That tells you the quality of his soul, that he is good beyond all reason and a better man just by nature than most can aspire to become._

_Without a purpose, without someone to love, he drifts and is uncertain. He is at his finest when his course is set, when he knows what needs doing. In the call to action he is swift and potent and sure...but beneath that surface is a man who possesses little certainty for himself. I coaxed a measure of certainty from him, made it possible for him to push beyond his limits and open himself to another in a way that wasn't possible for him before._

_The things I know of him that I would never share. He was not raised as some ascending star of the Wizarding world, but by the most contemptible Muggles one could imagine. The subject is one he'd barely let pass his lips, and if I hadn't been so dear to him, so close to a heart that only opened to me, he'd surely never have mentioned it at all. He was kept in a cupboard beneath stairs, underfed and largely ignored, and used like a House Elf servant. Beaten and cuffed and kicked! The appalling nerve of it angers me still! To think of him treated so...it almost makes me wonder if my families disgust with the world of Muggles was justified. But he forgives even these atrocities committed against him. How large a heart must that take? To suffer indignity at the hands of others for so long, and forgive all without more than a few words of acknowledgment to confess that these things actually occurred. No spite, no rage, no lust for vengeance. If I seem a better person today than I was those few years ago, I lay the accolades at his feet because his example shames me so._

_His touch. How I linger over memories of it. Sometimes I fear that time will steal most of it from me. I suppose that is why this diary seems less foolish now than when Claire first suggested it. I see the purpose of it now. I am less distracted when I commit these things to paper. I know they won't fade and disappear. Memory is fickle. In time it fades. Someday I will still have these pages to call upon so that the wonders I have known won't be dead to me._

_Harry looms in my mind easily now. It's odd that my mind makes him so tall and competent and powerful. The truth is that I'm the taller one of us by several inches, but his presence is such that he commands respect and attention. In love he is timorous, gentle, diffident and unsure. His touch is respectful, never avaricious. When his hands touch you, when he permits himself to let go and hold another, there is no doubt that his feelings are genuine. If they weren't, you simply wouldn't find yourself with the chance to experience his closeness. It is something he would never give away for paltry reasons. I barely knew anymore than he did at that age, but I knew what others had spoken of, and with him I dared to explore those notions as much as possible._

_Could anyone imagine adequately what it must be like to have him inside of them? To have someone so intensely private and self effacing, so humble and gentle, connected to you utterly and beaming with love and gratitude the whole while? It's food for the soul. I cannot recall ever having felt so good about myself or my place in this world until those first times with him. It wasn't mere pleasure. It wasn't exploration. It was connection. He gave, and I greedily took, but it was connection just the same. I could always tell that he was frightened of his own passion. Terrified of offending or hurting by accident. He needed someone to lead him and encourage him even in acts of lust. He needed someone who awoke in him the knowledge that he was strong, and powerful, and a sensual creature with needs and desires of his own. All this I gave him. I'm not ashamed at all of having felt him inside of me, teased to a state of eagerness and hungering to devour what I could offer. It wasn't foul or reprehensible, it was miraculous._

_I suppose in privacy I should dare to be crude if it suits me. There's no point in being cryptic to a blank page to be read by me some day in the future. He shagged me rotten! There! I said it. It was glorious, too! Harry and I were young and lean and fine and he fit me like a key fits a lock. I couldn't have enough of him. Being close to him, feeling his breath on my neck while he was inside of me, coming so hard it was difficult to see straight afterward, was a luxury beyond price. His cock was perfect, full and heavy and well shaped. The stamina! Gods! He had the endurance of a draft horse! I've never come so much or so hard in my entire life!_

_I've always been a tense person, and when I feel great tension and stress it can be expiated in one of two ways. Vindictiveness to others just to vent the frustration, or lust. With Harry I found the salve for my tension. That man could put me almost through a mattress for as long and as often as was needed to put my mind right and make me as calm and giddy as I could have ever hoped to be. On those rare occasions that it was only us in the old Black house, we rarely bothered with a lot of clothes. Just wandering around the old place in shorts and undershirts, giggling like kids and amusing ourselves wherever we took the mood to do so. After a life of boarding school decorum and the horrors of war, it was like a teenage dream come true to enjoy so much lazy pleasure seeking._

_Maybe I have wandered from the poetic to the pornographic, but who is there to care but me? With his prick in my mouth I gave him a pleasure he'd never known from another. He was my lover. It wasn't a thing to ashamed of, it was something to be treasured! We were both virgins when we found ourselves alone together so much. I ended that innocence without regret. He was the right one. He was worthy, and compassionate, and sweet. I was afraid of everything, and he made me feel safe again, when I thought nothing ever could. When he held me the world melted away and nothing mattered anymore. All that I desired was to be close to him in every way, and he let me have that closeness. When I woke up beside him the morning after, I felt like my chest would burst from happiness and my heart would soar into the heavens. Small wonder I immediately woke him up for another round! I knew that he had my heart, and that he'd hold it close and guard it with all his might from harm._

_What I couldn't grasp. Where I failed. What I couldn't understand because I was too close to it all as it happened...was that I also had his, and that it was my responsibility to do the same for him. I didn't know how. I say it like that excuses something, but I know that it doesn't. I was still a scared boy who'd just seen his entire world shattered. I took all that he could give...and I was so grateful for it...but I just took and took. I scarcely gave...except kindness, and sex, and time. I know I gave what I could. I gave what I knew how to give and could dare to share. It should have been more. It should have been everything. Nothing should have been withheld from him. Especially not words of love. He needed them, and I should have just given them, but I didn't. He deserved so much more._

_That is the poisonous truth I keep with me. For once it isn't just what I desire, although I do. It's a debt that should have been paid and never was. I owe him more than I can say, and I chose the most cowardly way to drive him away from me, to hurt him deeply, just to see if I could make him push me away and not leave me having to carry the blame alone._

_It's inexcusable after what he endured. What he did for my sake. He did it. He killed the monstrous thing that Marked me. He gave me my freedom from the thing I'd bound myself to. It isn't important that I would have chosen another path if I'd been given a safer choice...the fact remains that I chose not to run at first. I took that Mark and tried to make my family proud of me. I failed them too, at the cost of their lives ultimately. He found the strength in him to live through a killing curse, only because his heart was full of love for me. Because he hungered only to see me again, never to leave me alone and afraid._

_I was in the hospital when he was there. I went every night. The war was over and my movements were unrestricted. He lay there, still and silent and pale, comatose and lost to us. Weeks of it. I came every night when the others were away. I didn't let them see me, craven and weeping because I was afraid he'd never come back to me. It was exhausting. I have survived Crutiatus curses, beatings, starvation and terror...but I have never endured anything as awful as that lingering and constant vigil over my lover's near-corpse. I was almost mad with grief the entire while. The rest of them didn't need to know. I couldn't bear the idea of causing a scene when all I wanted was to be near him quietly. I left each morning before dawn. Only the nurses ever knew, and they were kind enough not to ask questions, but I think they knew more than they said. They could have guessed. Who but a lover would weep and pray all night, day after day, for some small sign of life from a loved one of the same age and gender? I was clearly no parent, no teacher. His friends gathered publicly around him by day, wept together, brought flowers and comforted one another. I came in secret, only by night, and I agonized alone in that room as the days passed with no sign of relief._

_I mentioned that I prayed. I had not mentioned that it wasn't a habit of mine until then. I couldn't think of what else to do. I felt helpless, utterly unable to influence the outcome of things...and so I prayed. I promised everything and anything, to any deity that would listen. I swore I'd be a better person, be worthy of respect, be good to the people around me and to the loved ones in my life. If only Harry would live and breathe and walk again. If I could hear that voice, or look into his eyes and see the warmth and spark in them once again. And I did. I may never be a pious person, I have no faith of my own. But even if it was by chance, those prayers were answered. I offer a moment of silent thanks at the end of each day, to anyone or anything that is listening, because I lived to know that he was well and alive and a part of the world again._

_It was hell after he awoke, and heaven, all at the same time. So many emotions I couldn't hold them all. It all became real. He hinted at plans for the future. Our future. He had dreams and ideas and hopes and goals. Things we'd see together across the length and breadth of years. Changes in how we'd live and where we'd go and what we'd do. And in my heart I was terrified of a future that would be alien and unknowable, even while I rejoiced at his every touch, grateful just to be beside him again._

_And then I betrayed him and left him aching and full of sorrow and anger, with a gambit half based on my own bravado and the vain hope that he wouldn't fall for it. I wasn't faking the desire to have a family. Not entirely. But if he'd cracked, if he'd been weak and begged me to stay no matter what else I did...I couldn't have resisted him. If he'd felt no anger at me for suggesting something so outlandish...I wouldn't have been able to do it. It would have broken me to see him beg, and I wouldn't have been able to walk away. In some ways, I am thankful that he is such a rightfully proud creature...and in other ways I lament that I chose to love someone so strong that they could stand alone and refuse to indulge my foolishness. I can remember the feel of his fist striking my face even now. Not the pain...that faded quickly enough. I remember the exultant joy that came of adrenaline and knowing that I'd escaped my responsibility to him and had just cause to walk away, punished at least a little for my crimes against him._

_It was the least I deserved, from a lover who gave all, even up to his own life, and was recompensed with only abandonment._

_TBC_


	39. Chapter 39

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 39: Like An Open Book

 

Draco could not control his steps as he reached the floor he'd sought. Even as he walked, his mind was completely enraptured by the passages he read. His lips moved softly as he muttered the words like a recited litany, the pages even turning themselves as if of their own volition. Slowly but surely he approached the quarters of Harry Potter, without even the knowledge of his destination.

_“For some time this has been my solace, my confessional, my brief chance to voice my innermost thoughts. In the months since I began this journal I've found within myself a confidence I did not think I could own. I am a better man for having faced these truths, but I begin to wonder if I have written all that must be recorded. Perhaps I'll pick up my pen again...in more peaceful times. Things are complicated now, and I dare not place more of my attention on this when so much must be done. At least for the time being, this shall be my last entry._

_Death Eaters have marked me for a vengeance killing. It's become widely known that I fled to the safety of the Order. As the rumors began to flow they weren't such a serious thing, but now that people seem to have settled upon them as true...there are repercussions. I am still of two minds about what to do. In England I have strong allies...at least one...if I dare to speak to him. I should do it. I'm stronger now than I was when I first started this journal. Perhaps I have the strength to ask Harry's forgiveness and yet not beg for his love._

_Claire has been a bastion of strength and support. With her beside me I feel I could do anything, no matter how painful or difficult it might be. Harry is a gentle soul...if he met her...she would surely charm him too. There is no spite in her. She would likely thank him for preserving my life so that this day could come. As would I!_

_In any case, it may be his aid that we need. His protection could save us much effort. A team of Aurors, much less the most powerful wizard of our Age, would cow any sniveling pack of Voldemort's old cronies into submission. It means facing him though, and I profess a certain confidence, but I am still a creature beset by doubts. I wonder if it would go well. In the silence of my heart, I want to believe in his goodness, his power to forgive and forget, but I've seen him in rage before. I did hurt him...and badly. It may not be a forgiveness I deserve. It may not be a forgiveness he can offer._

_What if I hurt him too deeply? If my pleas fell on ears that had closed to me, if he turned his back and walked away...I do not know if I could live with myself. As it stands, I do not know what he feels, and I am now used to that uncertainty. His friendship would bring me a peace I very much want...but his rejection would wound me far worse than what I've endured so far. So much hangs on it all that I consider other options. There are other ways to make our way back to England. I have a few old allies left from Slytherin. I have a fortune backing me, and my gratitude means something, even if it is only wealth...but wealth moves some people sufficiently to buy temporary loyalty and that's all I need until we're safely established._

_The DeLune's estate is old, but quite small compared to the manor. In light of the danger to myself I've written a brief will and testament to my last wishes. I've made certain that my wife and child's well being will be seen to in suitable fashion. Sadly, while this estate is well warded, it has become a prison to us. We no longer risk idle travel for shopping or leisure. Claire's parents can be...difficult. I suppose they expected insane extravagance and lavish spending. I haven't been carefree or a wastrel with my inheritance, but I haven't been skin-flinted either. Their greed is more than a little appalling, and it astonishes me that their daughter is so unlike them. I am thankful for those differences, but they do love her and dote upon her, so I suppose they have some admirable qualities to them. They raised a wonderful daughter whom I adore, and for that I will ensure they are never paupers._

_The constant weeks of close company in this small estate, sending the house elf out to fetch basic goods and things we require, has become more than a little irritating. This makes thoughts of England appealing in the extreme. It would be good to see my home again, and to let Claire enjoy the comforts of the manor. Little Draco could grow in the halls of his forefathers and know our ancestral home. The manor is far older than this estate, and its wards could be strengthened and improved once we're securely inside._

_I have sent occasional missives to old acquaintances, being discrete about my current location of course, but enough to foster old friendships and hopefully secure some allies that will want to curry my favor when I return. It seems callow, but its the way things are done among Slytherins and purebloods, and it always has been. At least Theo writes back in good cheer. His letters have been good reading by the fire with Claire while my son sleeps. It's good to think that someone remembers our time at Hogwarts fondly, in spite of the hash I made of the place. Maybe I am a Lord in my own right, and perhaps I can't be forced to utter an apology unless I wish to...but I think I will utter some just the same. There are people at that school even now who curse my name, and I wouldn't want the bad blood to carry over to my son someday. These things are rooted in my failings, and they should be dealt with by me, preferably as soon as the post war confusion settles. They are owed a sincere attempt to make things right, just as surely as Harry is._

_I could make the journey alone. I hate the idea of placing Claire or Draco at risk. Claire doesn't want to be parted from me, and while she sees the sense in not placing our child in harms way, she has no fear when it comes to herself. Her insistence complicates things more than a little, but could I turn away such loyalty? Such courage? I am blessed to have someone like her near me, and her strength lends me a bravery I didn't think I was capable of displaying. I suppose, for all that he failed us by embroiling our family with Voldemort, my father had that trait too. Only when it came to family did he have the courage of a lion, so out of place among serpents. Did mother bring that forth from him? Did I? In some ways, his choices make more sense to me, and in other ways, they make less than ever. I would never have enlisted in the service of someone who was so visibly consumed by cruelty...if I aimed to secure the well being of my family. It doesn't matter what they promise for reward...someone that foul and vindictive just cannot be trusted. It may be unfair to judge father so harshly. I can't know his mind or his justifications, but I know my own._

_Fear. It's fear that paralyzes me at this crucial time. There have been hints of people testing the wards to this estate. They found them strong and well cast, and I doubt we'll have any trouble within these walls, but it only serves as a reminder that I am a target. My betrayal hasn't sat well with some of the old Inner Circle. Theo has hinted at being able to make secret transport available to me. Something that those scrying for magical acts won't recognize easily. We aren't far from Calaise, and once we're to the coast we could make the jump from the continent fairly easily with the right spells. Where to land is the first issue. I'll need to use stopping points with at least modest magical protection, and I can't get Claire or Draco into the manor directly until I rekey the wards for them. It might be safer to head right to the Ministry...but they aren't precisely cheering for a robust future for the Malfoy family these days. With luck I may be able to change that over the years, but at the moment I'm less than welcome._

_Theo wrote of a safe point from which we could take a fast form of Muggle transit across the Channel. The last thing anyone would expect is a Malfoy using Muggle conveyance! The irony appeals to me. A swift boat to London and then make sure that Claire and Draco are safe while I rekey the wards. Then we can Apparate or Floo in easily. On the other hand, it may be safer to leave them both, or at least Draco, until I can absolutely sure of a safe return to the manor._

_Bah! These petty frustrations are all I think of anymore. Someday, someday this will be over and I will be at peace, in my own home, with my wife and child, unworried by crises like the ones we live with in these times. Perhaps, if I make a good peace between us, Harry will come by from time to time. I think of him with someone else and it twists in my chest like a knife, but he deserves any happiness or peace this world can give him. Far more than I deserve it. I might have to learn to invite him and another to our table. I'd do it. I'd do it and bite my tongue and greet his beloved warmly and welcome them to my home and at my table. The debt I owe him is too great to do any less._

_How far things have come since those halcyon days of youth. I wanted to curry his favor, even as a child. An ill-timed comment and before I knew it I'd drawn a line between us. How different things might have been if I'd been just a little less sure of my place in the world then. We could have found ourselves friends long before we did. I sometimes feel like I robbed myself of something precious...and I cannot give it back to myself. I would have chosen such different things, if I'd only loved first. Once a person experiences that glorious feeling they are never the same. It colors ones every perception, alters your every thought. It might all have ended so differently._

_I wool-gather. That past cannot be changed. I did what I did, and it cannot be undone. I made the world I live in through my own actions, and I won't blame another for it. It wasn't mischance...it was actual folly, and I know it. Soon I will make a choice. Perhaps Theo's offer of aid is worthwhile. One day I'll be home again and I can make right what few things I can, but for now I must focus on our escape from France and this estate._

_My next entry, if Merlin is at all merciful, will be from safe within the Malfoy estate, sitting in the den of my forefathers and sampling the vintages from our wine cellars. This diary has been a godsend to me, but I don't know if I'll need it once we're home. From there I can undertake so many things I can only dream of here. Who needs to write away stresses from days gone by when they can properly enjoy the future? Maybe I won't need this anymore. Maybe I'll pick this book up now and then, look back on these moments and remember what it was like to be so unsure of the future. Perhaps I'll chuckle as I read through it, or even blush at some of the remembrances from the old Black estate. Perhaps I'll see my friend, Harry, and no longer ache at the thought of him, content that our lives are still entwined as stalwart allies? We might talk of trivial things, knowing that all that was important has already been said._

_Who can say? For what it's worth, I'm glad these pages exist. They've done me good, but now is no longer the time to drift and wonder, now is the time to choose and act._

_Draco, Lord Malfoy_

Draco stood at the door of Harry's suite, intoning the last passages of the diary. Within, Harry had heard someone speaking at his door. His skin prickled uncomfortably and he felt oddly cold, despite the fact that there was no reason to feel that way. Some impulse made him go to the door and listen to the strange monotonous speech outside, laying aside his annoyance at being disturbed. The voice sounded vaguely like young Draco's, but it was more like muttering than clear speech, and that wasn't anything like Draco.

Harry opened the door, and found the strange tableau before him. Draco mouthed the words of a large book of fine leather, bound with bits of gold at the corners. The last words before the boy stopped speaking were “Draco, Lord Malfoy”. The lead gray eyes looked up to him, earnest and weirdly blank, and the boy held the book out to him, like an offering, and spoke with a candor that wasn't normal and a tone that Harry found eerily familiar.

“This...it was always meant to be found by you, Harry. It's taken too long to get here, but this is yours by right, my love.”

Harry felt the small hairs on his neck rising, and he was sure he could sense magic at play in Draco's behavior. The words he'd said...they hadn't sounded like his own. The boy had been raised in France, educated at Durmstrang. There was a stiff formality to most of his speech that only relaxed occasionally. The casual tone was out of place enough...on the son...but was more like the tone of his father. A glance at the handwriting that danced across the pages of the book and Harry shuddered in horror. Draco's...HIS Draco's...script was neat and clear, like that of a clerk, and he'd have known it anywhere.

It was pure impulse, not reason, that moved his hands, and despite a shriek of warning from his nerves Harry took the book from the hands of the young man in the hall. Even as he took it into his arms and turned to place it on the table, Harry felt the world begin to melt and swirl away. Far from fear, he felt oddly safe, the presence of the book itself seemed to flood his senses with comfort and familiarity. When Harry blinked away his disorientation, he looked upon a scene, a time and place, that had been pushed from his mind so many times. A small and cozy cottage on the coast of France. The last place he'd seen his former lover...dead. This was the room where the Death Eaters had found Draco and Claire. This is where their lives ended. Where Harry began the ruin of his own life on a path of violent revenge.

But there were no bodies here. The windows were open and the day was sunny and bright. The cottage was clean and well cared for, but devoid of occupants. Nothing stirred save motes of dust in the sunlight. Although his heart ached at the memories this place brought, still he felt love all around him, even in an empty cottage.

Or an almost empty cottage. The hairs on his neck leaped to attention when the voice behind him broke the silence.

“Hey, Harry. Missed you.”

Harry turned and found himself looking into the face of the young man he'd loved in life, and mourned in death, for twenty years.

“Aw, c'mon, Harry! You look like you've seen a ghost!”

 

TBC


	40. The Hor-Crux Of The Situation

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 40: The Hor-Crux Of The Situation

 

Harry stood dumbfounded, paralyzed by shock and barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. So many thoughts were rushing through his head that he couldn't voice them all properly, or even separate one from the pack and vocalize it clearly.

“You...you...you're...”

Draco smirked while standing in the doorway and leaning against the frame. “What? Dead? Alive? Not much difference in this place. I'm sorry to surprise you this way, lover, but it's funny how these things work out, isn't it?”

Draco suddenly looked sad and serious, his smirk fading to a worried and tired expression that seemed out of place on a face that was still that of a young man. 

“I know what you're thinking. You don't have to worry. I didn't do anything evil to make this happen. There are two ways to make a Horcrux, Harry. I was there when you learned of the last one. In Grimmauld Place. You can only power the spell with death...that's why its evil. Only loss of life can forge the chance to make a vessel for a piece of a person's soul. Voldemort killed others. Well...I was murdered in cold blood after watching my wife die, knowing my child would be orphaned. I was standing near where you are now...and when the Killing Curse took me I felt my soul ripped from my body. All I could think of was how desperately I wanted to see you again. I didn't want to leave, or die, or move on...I just wanted one last chance to see you, to speak with you again. The closest object with a strong relationship to me was the book I'd made into a journal. I grabbed hold of it with my spirit and flowed into it, and it gave me a tether to this world and a house for my spirit.”

Harry felt tears burning trails down his cheeks. He couldn't bring himself to move, or even turn his eyes away from the living spirit in front of him. “I'm...I'm...so sorry...Draco...I failed you...”

Draco stepped forward, smiling yet looking a little teary eyed himself, and slid into Harry's arms, as real in this place between worlds as if he'd never died at all.

“Stop that.” Draco whispered, holding Harry close and speaking softly into his ear. “You would blame yourself, wouldn't you? Savior Of The Wizarding World, and still such a big, dumb kid.”

The world swirled around them and the cottage dissolved, and Harry found himself in a vast and superbly decorated ballroom, still alone with Draco, still in the arms of his lover. Music played on charmed instruments in the background, and Draco had twined his fingers into his hand.

“Let me lead, Harry. I used to daydream about this when we were in Grimmauld Place. I never told you. This is the manor. It would have been mine. We could have danced here, together, whenever we wanted. I wanted so much to do this with you someday.”

The tempo of the music was slow, and Draco moved them carefully, guiding a mute and desperately confused Harry across the floor with small steps. In the unreal world of the Horcrux, Draco was the shaper of reality, and their bodies turned with the notes of some long forgotten song. Harry slowly came back to himself, even with tears trickling hot trails down his face. He stopped them in mid-dance, pulling away enough to look into Draco's eyes. His lover of years before had a bittersweet expression of mingled joy and grief.

“It was really you, wasn't it? The dreams? John's potions worked...but I was seeing you. The bottle...that was no vision. You manifested...in the real world. I was seeing you...not your son...when we kissed. It was you all along.”

The music dimmed and faded, until they were just two figures on a vast black and white checkered floor. Draco smiled a careworn smile.

“Yeah. You have no idea how hard it is to do those things from here. I have no real body. The effort costs me...dearly. Some things are easier than others. Shaping this realm is easy, but sending anything, even feelings, out into the world is tiring for me. Just a moment.”

The world dissolved and reformed again, and now they were in Grimmauld Place, sitting on the edge of the bed they'd shared so often then. Draco turned to face Harry, never having let go of his hand.

“At first I was numb, blind and mute in this space between realities. Not dead or alive, and unable to do anything of note. I felt you, you know? When you and the Aurors were in the cottage. I could feel you near. I just couldn't do anything to make myself known. The book was already magical...it's sealed by my blood and name. To open it requires those things. No one could tell there was something more to it than a magically sealed diary. Such things aren't unheard of among wizards and witches.

Then you were gone, and I sat for years in a trunk in the attic of the DeLune estate. I had time to start flexing my spiritual muscles, but I could only shape the space I dwelt in...here. I couldn't do much else. My son, Harry, I could feel his sorrow near me. His loneliness and grief. One day it became so powerful that I feared for his life. I thought for sure that if he hurt like that, he'd take his life or take someone elses. I projected what I could...feelings, hints, wisps of emotion. He found me. Because he needed it, and because I could give him nothing else...I projected love. Everything I could. As much as I could make flow from what's left of me in this book. I didn't know he'd open it someday...but I could sense his closest thoughts, and one day he worked out the basics of Wizard locking a diary like this. His name IS my name...the bloodline makes his blood as mine. It opened for him. I'd never even considered the ramifications.

But he needed it, Harry. My child, my darling son, they left him alone in his rooms for days! They were wrapped up in their grief and they all but abandoned him to be cared for by house-elves! They sent him to that abysmal pit, Durmstrang, out of nothing but spite! They fed him nothing but hate for my family and the name he inherited! I had to give him something. He was on the edge of self destruction, but I got him through it by feeding love to him, the sense that he was loved and wanted. I always meant for you to find me, for this to find its way to your hands, but he needed me, Harry. I only learned to take influence over the material world because he brought me everywhere with him for years. It was reading this diary that set his sights on Hogwarts.

I only just learned to manifest through him and take action while we've been here. It was really more of an act of desperation. I tried to reach you in your dreams, but the way was mostly blocked by potions. Can't say I blame you for taking it the wrong way though...given the circumstances. I felt your pain when you told my son what happened all those years ago. I could feel your heart crying out in anguish. I made him get help. I tried to appear and do more, but physical manifestation is exhausting. It was easier to use him as a conduit. Maybe I shouldn't have kissed you with him as my vehicle...but even I have limits to my ability to stay neutral. When it comes to you...I lose my head...just like always. I've ached for a chance to kiss you, to be near you, to say all that was unsaid...for so long. I'm not sorry for being a little weak for a moment. I stole a kiss with lips that weren't my own. I tried to make him surrender the book to you, but he actually fought me! 

He never knew I was a real part of this book, all he knew was that someone might take the book away if they found that it was magical beyond what a normal wizard diary would possess. I didn't dare let him be saddled with the knowledge of Horcruxes or what they're capable of...I want that knowledge to die with our generation...so I stayed silent. If he had known this book was really me...I'd have been called on to interfere constantly, not just subtly. It would have been a massive disruption of his life...with the added risk that someone might find out about this book and ultimately prevent me from getting to you. I've been his only solace for years. I can't blame him for struggling to keep me near and refusing to give in and hand me over to you. I actually had to entrance and possess him just to get the book here to you. 

I am sorry he read some of the chapters on our time together. They weren't meant to be shared, but he is more like me than I could have guessed. Even so, if I'd known that my teenaged son was going to read through this, I definitely wouldn't have waxed eloquent about what a glorious prick you have or how gifted you were when you put it to work in me! Almost a third of the pages in this thing aren't fit to be read by anyone not properly of age!! For Merlin's sake, there's an entire entry dedicated almost entirely to how much I loved sucking your cock!

He may be the smarter of the two of us, yes, but he is his father's son. He was attracted to men even before the book, even though he was only just coming to terms with it. At least it assured him that he wasn't the only one, that what he felt was a thing that simply happens in life, like so many other things. It helped him, I hope, because I know it wasn't easy for me. I was terrified of my own feelings at first...and I doubt I'd have faced them at all if I hadn't been with you. I suppose the pages in this thing may have tilted his interests toward heroic, world saving, wizards with glasses and scarred foreheads who happen to be incredible in bed...but I can't really blame him for that. I have to agree that you're still quite a catch!”

Harry reeled under the flow of information, then was suddenly aghast when he thought of the younger Draco. “Oh God! Your son...I wouldn't...I never...”

Draco silenced him again. “Oh, come off it, Potter! You're so thick it's almost comical! I know EVERYTHING from him...through him. You've tried your best to look out for my child. You haven't done a thing to him beyond rattling his cage a little...in spite of every reason to have done quite a bit more than that! He all but threw himself at you, and all you could concern yourself with is making sure he was well and safe with his virtue intact. Be his godfather, watch him for me, don't let him always brood alone. Do what you think is right. I trust you. You're my hero...you always were and you still are. You did the honorable thing...like you always do. Maybe its the Slytherin in me, but to blazes with the bastards who killed me, and to hell with Nott, too! I would have wanted vengeance. They were psychopaths and they laughed while they killed my wife in front of me. I was almost paralyzed from the Crutiatus curse when they killed me! Fuck what all the others may say...they deserved what they got! They'd have only rotted in Azkaban anyway...and you...you avenged my family.”

Harry calmed and flopped back onto the bed, feeling oddly like a teenager again, in this environment of the mind that perfectly echoed his happiest moments in Grimmauld Place. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

“This...this world. This place between places. I've been in one before you know? Voldemort's first Horcrux was a book. He made Ginny open the Chamber Of Secrets through that book. When I confronted him...it was him as a teenager...a piece of his soul leftover in a journal he'd left behind in the hopes of gaining influence over others someday. He aimed to live forever. To cheat death. I can't...this can't last. To live again you'd need another body. I'll lose you again...because I can't let you take another person over.” It hurt to say such a thing. Harry's face was a grimace of discomfort, and his words slipped from him haltingly. 

Draco curled softly beside him. It felt so real, the way the bed creaked from age just like it had then, with the weight of another beside him. Harry felt a head resting on his chest while Draco's arm curled around him. Draco was silent a moment, making the happy, contented sounds of a person who was just where they had always wanted to be.

“I know, Harry. I don't want to live again. I never did. You may be the dutiful protector of the world, but don't worry about this one. You may not have grasped it yet, but this book...holds ALL of my soul. This isn't some tiny, crazy sliver of a power crazed lunatic. This is all of me that's left. When I let go...which the Dark Lord would NEVER have done...I'll be gone for good, and there won't be any coming back. This...this is what I wanted. This was all I ever desired...to be like this, again, with you. I can hold myself to this place for a time, as long as you want me to...but when you're ready to leave...I'll be leaving with you, and this will only be a book full of words I left behind.”

He could say it. Harry knew in his heart that he could finally say it. Like this, here in some shadow creation of Grimmauld Place, with his hand stroking through Draco's hair like he'd loved to do in those rare times when they'd had the freedom to just be close.

“I have...missed you. I loved you so much...and I've missed you so much more than that. In some ways...you were the strong one. You made me better, stronger, more able. Without you...I've hurt...I've been...so alone...and I...I couldn't let anyone take those memories away. I fought off death to be with you. I should have told you...The Killing Curse...the one the Dark Lord cast...it didn't take...it killed him because...” and then his voice began to break.

Draco leaned up and kissed away the tears that were leaking down his lover's face. Harry was shivering from tension and the effort to keep deep sobs from wracking his frame.

“Shhhh...Harry...I knew. Even then. I was in the hospital. They thought I didn't know, or hadn't heard them when they found your thoughts. I was near. I didn't let you down because of something you didn't say, or something you didn't do. It was never, never your fault. I adored you, I hungered for you, I died a little every night that I sat up waiting for you to wake, and died again every day that I waited alone until everyone else had left.

I was just eighteen years old...and I was a scared kid. When I thought...that I might never see you again...I almost couldn't make it. Maybe I gave you strength...but you were almost all of mine. Without you I was lost. Sitting in a room every night praying for you and sitting there helpless to make a difference. I almost went mad. I kind of hoped you'd even die, because then I could take my own life and hope to find you again. Anything but that constant wait beside a still and silent body in a bed.

Harry...when you came back to me, my heart soared and leaped! You didn't do anything wrong. I was unhinged. It was a stupid teenage test. All of a sudden it was real, and our lives were our own, and it was all in front of us. I couldn't believe I had the right to be happy. After the things I'd done...I thought I'd lose you someday and it would destroy me like it nearly did by that hospital bed. I did want a family...but I was torn between wanting to make you push me away, so that it would end on my terms...and hoping you'd never let go of me. I couldn't have kept up the act for long. You fell for it, you didn't see it as a bluff from a half crazed, traumatized teen, and you had every right to be angry. 

It gave me the momentum I needed to do the only other thing I felt I owed my family...which was to give them a child to carry the name. I'm not sorry about having a son, and I truly cared for my wife...but Harry James Potter...of all the people I have ever known, I have only ever truly loved you, even if it was in my own failed and flawed way. That's what I wanted to say, that's what made this place possible. I wanted to last long enough to say it, because you so deserved to hear it. I love you. I loved you so much that I couldn't think clearly when you were near. I am so glad I had those moments with you...every last one of them. I love you dearly, I loved you in life, and even after it. I love you, Harry. I never said it when I was alive, and I carried that regret with my last breath. I want to shout it a million times, loud enough for it to echo through eternity! I love you, Harry. Thank you for everything you made me feel. Thank you for loving me, for giving me love when I didn't even know what it was or how to show it. I love you.”

Harry's tears were from purest joy, mixed only with the bittersweet knowledge that eventually this time and place would cease to be. It did not trouble him greatly...because the hole in his heart that had been dug so long ago was full now, the empty and aching place had been salved and healed. The poison had been drawn and he could not feel doubt or regret anymore. His hadn't been a vain or wasted love, it had only been a tragic one, a victim of the circumstances of life and the impetuousness of youth. It hadn't been unrequited...it had been the genuine and very real love of two very young, very fragile, terribly confused kids that would have made their peace eventually, if the cruel realities of the post war world hadn't intervened. There was nothing to regret, nothing to lament, nothing to revile or turn his back on...it was only something to be cherished and recalled with reverence, even if it's time had passed.

The world shifted and twisted once again, and now they stood hand in hand in the little cottage on the coast once more. It didn't feel like a gravesite anymore. It seemed more like a beginning than an end. Perhaps it was just that Harry now saw everything through the lens of undiluted joy and relief. Draco wouldn't be here, trapped in this place between places forever, and life would go on, but he'd heard the words his heart had pined for during twenty long years of grief, and now he could let go of the bitterest moments of their past.

Draco stood beside him, staring out into the waters of the Channel, where the sun sparkled on waves capped with white foam. He leaned close, as warm and as real as the pleasant feel of sunlight on skin, one arm around Harry's waist, the other gently caressing Harry's chin, pulling their eyes together at the last. There were no more tears between them, and Draco smiled impudently with mirth twinkling in eyes that hadn't had cause for joy in decades.

“When you kiss me, the world will melt away. You've always had that power over me, Harry. Are you ready, love?”

And Harry turned into lips that waited to greet him, let his eyes close, and savored their softness and hunger one last time, and felt it all begin to whirl and pull away. 

And one last time, echoing through his heart and mind, through his very being, Harry heard his lover's voice.

“I love you, Harry.”

TBC


	41. The Aftermath

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 41: The Aftermath

Harry felt consciousness flutter back to him, and knew instantly that he still stood upright, unmoving since the moment he'd first taken the book into his hands. Across from him, a stunned Draco the Younger seemed to be blinking in confusion and surprise as he emerged from the trance that had held him. Just as a look of horror crossed the boys face when he realized what Harry held, a wisp of sparkling golden light slid up from the pages, and for a moment they were each suffused with the overwhelming sense of deepest love and affection. A second later the light dimmed and faded, and moments after that even the sense of magical presence and the feeling of love were gone as well.

Young Draco turned white as a sheet, staring in numb shock at the book in Harry's hands. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and touched the open page plaintively, his face twisting into a mask of stifled loss and fear. He could only barely manage a whisper while looking up to Harry with eyes that were already tearing up beyond control.

“It's...it's gone. Gone! There's...there's nothing there...anymore.”

Draco sunk to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut, fighting off sobs that threatened to nearly pull him apart. His breath started to come in deep gasps, forced in between strangled cries.

“NO! Noooo! N-not that! It...it was...everything! Gone...it's gone! I...am...alone.”

Harry slowly moved to place the book on the table, still reeling in silence from the events that had passed for him inside the Horcrux. Young Draco was right. He'd felt the spirit leave, even if he didn't know its true nature. This book now held only the magics that guarded its contents. It was now no more than a normal wizard's diary. It was hard to concentrate, still overwhelmed by a sense of peace and joy that had come from his time with his long dead lover. It jolted Harry from his reverie when he saw Draco's son collapse to the ground in tears. 

He felt a calm he hadn't known in quite some time, a certainty and strength he hadn't fully had since the day he and his lover had parted decades ago. Harry had no fear, of intimacy, or closeness, with anyone or anything. Not anymore. In some ways, he felt like the man he should have been, and not the hollow wreckage that had been left behind in the wake of tragedy. Draco's son needed him. Now more than ever. His godson. In no uncertain terms, Draco had asked that Harry make certain that his child did not brood alone in sorrow, and Harry knew he could and would honor that wish.

With reverence befitting a treasured work of art, Harry laid the book upon the table, then turned to kneel beside the weeping boy who had curled almost into a fetal ball on his side, wracked with indescribable grief. Without even a cruel hint of hesitation or reticence, Harry pulled the young man up into a fierce hug, uttering words that flowed more easily than he could have imagined.

“No...you will never be alone. It was a message, Draco. It was a message from him to me. It was supposed to reach me. You are my godchild, Draco. As long as we live, you are my kin. You will not be alone. I love you. You...are the son of my heart. The message and its magic are gone, but what it meant...that will be with us all our days. It's alright...it's alright.”

It seemed so strange, to hold a man close to him again, even under circumstances such as these, but Harry felt oddly detached and unafraid. Once, such closeness would have frightened him, but no longer. The knot in his soul had been unraveled once and for all. He knew, beyond doubt, that he had been loved absolutely and with a fidelity that hadn't diminished across decades. His life was no cruel joke or waste, and while it had its tragedies, to be sure, they were now tempered by the knowledge of that wondrous love.

Draco's sobs had begun to subside, until the softly breathing and exhausted young man became limp and quiet in Harry's arms. Harry held him still, at perfect peace with his new role. This was no cruel echo of a lost love...this was now his child. His Draco's beloved son. His godson. The boy would never know the Horcrux's true nature, no one would. That knowledge would die with the last survivors of the war against Voldemort...but young Draco would always know that he was loved, that his presence was cherished and desired.

Several minutes later, Draco sighed and pushed himself away from Harry slowly, looking horribly embarrassed about his display. Harry interrupted before Draco could even voice an apology.

“Don't. You're going to beg my pardon. I can see it in your eyes. Don't. You have nothing, nothing to apologize for. You have given me a gift that can never be properly repaid.” Harry placed a steady hand on Draco's shoulder, looking the young man in the eyes and smiling beatifically. “I meant what I said. You carried a message that was meant to be delivered to me. HE wanted this. Your father. I am your godfather. He loved you dearly, and when he feared he wouldn't be there for you, he left a message of love. He wanted you to be cared for by someone he trusted. Your grandparents...they were too consumed by the loss of their daughter to see the child they could have given their love to...and it was their loss.”

Draco still possessed a sense of decorum, even if Harry was too inspired to care, and a whispered spell closed the door behind them. Draco leaned back against the wall and drew a deep breath, then wiped his eyes as best he could. His face was still blotchy from weeping, and he was grossly uncomfortable with his own emotionality. There were questions that begged answering, and things that no longer merited concealment. So much.

“I...I found it in the attic. The day I was...I was going to kill myself. After Yves. My grandparents were furious. I spent the summer almost entirely alone...except for the elves. All I could think was that the next year would be worse. I wasn't even sure how to do it, but I was thinking of ways...spells or potions...anything that wouldn't hurt too much. I just wanted it...over.

I felt it. It was faint, and fluttering...just a hint. It interrupted me when I was thinking dark thoughts. I thought it felt...like warmth. Like a crackling fire during the winter. The closer I got to it, the more comfortable I was. The attic could be reached from my suite, and I found it in an old trunk. I couldn't even open it...but I stayed curled around it every night for weeks. When it was near...I felt...alive...and human...like I belonged.”

Harry had seated himself on the floor across from Draco, just letting him get the words out in his own time. It hurt to hear of his Draco's son enduring such agony, but he also knew that, just as his own poison had been drawn, now he was helping to purge the old wounds in his godson. It was necessary, and right, and long overdue.

“The puzzle of its opening taunted me. I had the elves fetch me books from the house's library. I read of wizard locks and their common attributes. I finally used my blood and my name...and it opened. You don't know...I didn't know...how much I'd hated myself until that time. That last week before school, I read it all. I learned things...about my father, about what love meant to him, about how much he loved me...and you. He'd written of the war, and Hogwarts. He wrote of cruelty, and gentleness, love and sex and family. All his thoughts, from the year before he was killed. And always...I felt what I had newly learned was...love...always near me when the book was close. It was my armor and shield. When I returned to school, I kept it with me always. Under lock and key and spell, but always where I could get to it when I needed it.

I wanted...or rather...I knew I was meant to be here, not in Durmstrang. I had to see this place. And you. He wrote of you so...passionately. It wasn't like the textbooks or histories I'd read. It was like the Muggle poet's words...like Lord Byron's. Eloquent, but full of feeling. I had to come here. This is what my life would have been, if he had lived. Instead...I came to a place where people seemed to shrink away from me in horror, or treated me like a curiosity that belonged in a museum cabinet. Even you...at first.”

“Draco, forgive me.” Harry interjected. “I couldn't have known or guessed what these months would be like. I can't...I don't even know how to describe what its been like...to live in doubt and shame for so long. I haven't...been fair to you...or to anyone...in a long time. When I say you gave me a gift...I didn't lie. For the first time in a long time...I am awake. I was broken...but it wasn't you that broke me. If anything...it's you who made me well again. Thank you.”

Draco looked sorely confused, full of disbelief and uncertainty. “You mean these things? You think of me as a son? Father's message to you...was about me?”

“Yes. Not all of it. A portion was for me. I held the book and...I KNEW...I...parts of the text are still in my memory. I would like to read it all, because I don't have your gift for memory, but I know things, things I never could have hoped to hear. I know that he loved me, even if we parted terribly. What that means to me...is incalculable. What I felt for him, then it wasn't a mistake, or a waste. I've lived with the fear that our parting meant I'd been a fool..and I know otherwise now. But I also know he wanted you to be well, and healthy, and grow to be strong and wise and good. He wanted to be there to see all your dreams come to fruition...and that was stolen from him, and that privilege has been passed to me. It would be an honor to call you my kin, and I'm grateful for it no matter how it came about.”

The young man smiled faintly, lips trembling while he looked to the floor. “It is a poor state of affairs. I might thank you for the chance to call you family. It's a cruel gift just the same. You cannot be what I would want from you...and this...this is only a step further from that. I see what he loved. I would have to be mad not to. I wish I wasn't a trouble to you...with these feelings. I cannot help them. So many things we can control in this life...but they are all small, petty things. We cannot control our hearts, even though we dearly wish to. Harry...I love you. I want to know you as no other could. I want to be the breath in your lungs, the light in your eyes...and even knowing that place belonged to another, I can't change what I feel so easily. Forgive me.”

Harry pulled Draco to him again, and Draco was too tired and too surprised to resist. He found himself slumped against Harry as they both sat upon the flagstones of the floor beside the wall, Harry's arms around him again. Draco sighed and relaxed, not really caring anymore what came of it all. This exquisite feeling of freedom and closeness was more than he had ever known, and it was nothing he wanted to make end.

The man holding him spoke softly and with a warm and pleasant chuckle or two among his words. “You truly are your father's son. He was many things, but he was never convenient. I suppose I'm used to that! Don't think that just because I can't give you what you desire, that you won't have closeness of any kind. It's not true. For a long time, I couldn't even be as close to the people I've known for decades as I would have like to have been. Everyone was kept at a distance. I...I don't think I'm like that anymore. We'll get through this, godfather and godson, whether it's easy or not. In my way, I love you too, and dearly, but it is love. The fact that you can feel that way, about anyone, is proof that you have the capacity for it in you. That ability doesn't disappear, Draco. 

I don't doubt for a minute that you will find someone that suits you, someone who makes having those feelings worth the effort and the stress. Some people wait far longer than you have so far...only to find love in the strangest places and most unexpected times. Have faith. Whatever comes of it, you'll always have my support. Not to mention the family I already have...Ron, Hermione, their entire family is dear to me. You won't be rattling around in Malfoy Manor alone with a social schedule that includes all of them! The book is just a book now, but you deserve much more than a book for company, and you'll have it. It served its purpose, and now you'll have more than it ever could have given you. Don't think of it as loss when you haven't yet seen all you've gained.”

Draco sighed mightily. It was so much to have taken in...and in such a short time. Oddly, as alien as being held close was for him, it did seem to make every word he heard seem all the more true.

“I believe you. I do. It all sounds impossible, but when you say it, I can feel that it must somehow be true. He wrote of that, too. He said you made what seemed unreachable into something that could be real. I wanted to give the book to you. I knew it should have been yours. I just...I...I suppose I always sensed that when you took it, it would change everything. It might not be mine anymore. I've had it so long...and always...it gave me this....what I feel now, because of you. I didn't want to risk it. I didn't know I would feel like this. I feel like anything could happen. Like I belong somewhere. As if every terrible thing that has ever happened mattered not at all. You should read it all. I'll miss it...but perhaps I don't need it at all...if I have this.”

They talked long into the night. Far longer than was sensible, and in the morning they knew they'd pay the price of having squandered more than half of the time that should have been given over to slumber, but when Draco left for his rooms he left without the book that had been his lifeline to sanity for half a decade, and he slept as soundly as he could ever recall. Harry, too, slept an uninterrupted sleep. No spirit haunted his rest, no tantalizing vision made his waking hard to endure. All possibilities lay before him, open and attainable, and it ought to have been a welter of confusion, but he had about him the sense of confidence that, whatsoever unfolded, he could handle it all in good order, and that was more than enough.

TBC


	42. The Passage Of Years

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 42: The Passage Of Years

 

In the wake of their tumultuous discovery, Draco and Harry, as well as the rest of Hogwarts, slowly found themselves approaching normalcy. Draco excelled at studies that were no longer hindered by a distraught state of mind, and Harry found that mentoring his godchild was nowhere as difficult as he had once imagined.

John Prewett found himself soon relieved of his most frequent patients, although Draco, somewhat sheepishly at first, still occasionally dropped by in the early mornings for tea and pleasantries, having discovered that he genuinely liked and sometimes missed the company of the affable gentleman that had pushed him into facing his own thoughts. In the fullness of time, Draco regularly dropped by the Prewett's home during the school holidays, and considered the elderly couple to be among his dearest friends. 

It was of great relief to John that his potionmaking skills hadn't been rusty, and that a book with a lingering message had been at the root of Harry's discomforting dreams. Harry had given a thorough account of the events, leaving out only the precise nature of the book's enchantment, assuring John that it wasn't a personal issue that called for secrecy, but a promise leftover from the war. Certain that Harry was sound in body and in mind, John simply let the matter rest, contented that the troubled people he'd worried over for months were finally able enough to manage their lives without his interference.

Ron Weasley hailed Harry's return to a full schedule with the relief one might have more expected from a newly freed prisoner who had just seen the sky for the first time in years. Being able to get himself home each night and spend his evening surrounded by his wife and children was the only aim he'd had for weeks, and having what he considered his proper life back was an enormous boost to his mood...so much so that when the occasional visit by the young Lord Malfoy for chess matches became commonplace, he didn't mind being just a bit late getting home now and again. It still boggled his mind that the son of his old rival was becoming decent company in his eyes, but it was impossible to despise anyone who played a brilliant match and could even beat him one time out of every three. Not to mention that speaking of their old school days with an avid and appreciative listener made it somewhat easier to relax...even on the subject of the boy's father. Speaking ill of the dead went against the grain, and speaking ill of a person's dead father in front of them was something Ron's mother would have blanched to see...and so if there was a muffled undertone of disapproval all the while, there was at least a note of respect and a grudging admission that Harry, in the end, had known best what the elder Draco had been like in life.

Minerva McGonagall found herself with sufficiently glowing remarks from instructors about Draco's growing comfort with people (and refreshingly improved respect for instructors) that her missives to the Ministry yielded grudging results. In due time the name Malfoy was struck from the list of 'Observed and Suspect Persons', and that was that. Barring any further explosions or outrageous conduct, the Ministry considered the matter at a close.

The holidays arrived at last, and Draco braced himself for isolation at the Malfoy estate, until Harry tendered an offer to assist him in the reconstruction of Grimmauld Place, as well as regular visits to the Weasley's and Ron and Hermione's home. It was an offer he couldn't have refused and had no intention of missing out on...even though, as it turned out, Harry had very Muggle-ish notions about redecoration, most of which involved doing all of the work 'the old fashioned way'...which was to say non-magically!

Draco could see why Harry hadn't been keen on living in the place, even without harsh memories and bittersweet ones. It was in appalling condition by any standard, and oppressively gloomy. It took days just to clean rooms and move furniture around enough to start painting. Being unfamiliar with the craft of housepainting, neither of them were especially skilled at preventing mishaps and having to clean up errors...at least until Draco took some initiative and bent the rules in true Malfoy fashion, not using magic to paint the walls, but using it discretely to prevent mishaps. Harry ferociously disapproved and considered it a violation of his original plans...for about two days...when he grudgingly asked for the innovated Charms being used and how to cast them himself.

In the chaos and mess and dust, much was unearthed and laid aside for storage or cleaning, but only one thing gave either of them a moment's worry. In the drawer of an old dresser, shoved beneath some old clothes that hadn't seen daylight in decades, Draco found a collection of Muggle photographs, several of which might have been considered scandalous had they ever found their way into the hands of people other than himself or Harry.

They were of his father and Harry, and the lighting was largely terrible, and they'd been made with some sort of camera that Harry told him granted instant development of the film, whatever that meant. In the few images Draco had ever seen of his father, he had only ever seen a young man in tailored clothes, looking serious and sober, quiet and intensely thoughtful. Only in these had he ever seen a teenaged boy in an undershirt that was too large for him, with mussed hair, sticking his tongue out at the person who was taking the picture (which had been Harry). The person in the picture had been almost eighteen years of age, madly in love, and had just escaped a life of torture and deprivation that had cost him the lives of his parents. You could see both experiences in him at once, a little hollow eyed and gaunt, but hopeful, and in the waifish slenderness of an already tall and lean young man, but with an excitement and visible comfort in his new surroundings even while the Mark was visible on his arm. The pictures showed the two young men kissing while staring sidelong into camera, or breaking up with laughter when they were supposed to be posing, and generally behaving like two awkward and giddy seventeen year olds in love.

Harry hadn't been upset at all when told that Draco had found them, and promptly placed them where they could be added to an album at some later date when the rooms were properly finished. He'd flipped through them one by one, grinning the entire while, talking about the week that Draco the Elder had first come to Grimmauld Place, the weeks afterward that had led to them being close, their first kiss, and then telling the story behind each picture without a note of horror or regret.

The monotony of cleaning and painting and repair was broken up by regular visits to and from the Weasley clan, complete with regular shipments of delicious treats baked by Gram Weasley, as Mrs. Molly Weasley was called by her growing brood of grandchildren. Certain things were made clear to Draco in a very short time: his discomfort with strangers would not in any way protect him against handshakes, backpats and hugs from various Weasleys, and his adoption by Harry as a godchild meant that he now had a rather large and boisterous extended family that instantly absorbed him as if he'd been there all along and had only been away on an errand that happened to take eighteen years.

This regular association also included a blessed and welcome measure of time to shamelessly monopolize the attention of Hermione Granger-Weasley, burning through discussions on esoteric tracts concerning the nature of magic, its origins and limitations, and its as yet undiscovered potential uses. Before the holidays had passed, Draco had already realized that his ultimate desire was to pursue research and become a scholar in the magical world, and his pedigree as a research wizard would be starting with an apprenticeship beside the witch whose work he admired most.

The remainder of the year passed, with Draco gaining the accreditation he had desired, and Harry handing the reins of his professorship to a gregarious and competent Auror who had already been on the edge of retirement and considered teaching a fine thing to undertake. Despite the protests of students who mourned the loss of a teacher they generally idolized, Harry returned to his projects in Grimmauld Place with renewed vigor and undivided attention. 

Draco organized Malfoy manor to his liking, at least enough to make proper use of certain rooms for research and study, and then rather nervously asked if Harry would set aside rooms for him in Grimmauld Place. Harry gladly earmarked the small suite in which Draco had stayed during the holidays as Draco's own, and saw to refitting it with Draco's help. The filth and gloom was slowly being replaced by clean white walls and powerful lights, polished furnishings and tasteful décor, and room by room the battle against decay and atrophy was being won, all while Draco balanced his journeys to Ron and Hermione's for advanced theory lessons (and savage chess matches).

When Harry had finally finished all other rooms, having transformed the house into a spacious, bright and airy environment of class and comfort, he built for himself a proper den and study, and in its quiet confines he began to write. Having regular access to a certain young person who could recollect precise details even from very obscure tomes at a moment's notice made the work go considerably faster than he'd hoped, and he laid the groundwork for a new First Year Defense Against The Dark Arts text with great relish, although the book would take quite some time to properly complete.

His schedule had other things in it as well, now that he felt a certain comfort with idea of public appearances, most notably lectures on the topic of Defensive Magic. There were charitable events, speaking tours, and social gatherings that he sometimes accepted invites to...although he rarely enjoyed being pestered for war tales, and greatly preferred to shift the topic to education and Hogwarts. Between all of that and routine visits to the Weasley Burrow or to Ron and Hermione's, his weeks were rarely dull.

But all was not entirely peaceful and right. As one year passed into another, and then into several, Harry clearly made no effort to start a new romantic life. Hermione in particular bedeviled him on the subject, and he would only smile mildly and shrug, saying that it just wasn't that important to him. Repeated attempts to engineer accidental meetings between Harry and prospective suitors were always met with politeness, but proved ultimately futile.

Draco fared only a little better, periodically taking chances on intimacy with the rare fellow intellectual that shared his sexuality, but his inexperience and temperament made these affairs rocky things that usually ended in quiet and amicable separation. On very rare occasions, when he had imbibed enough alcohol to loosen his tongue and only Hermione was present, he would blurt out that he still felt something for Harry, and that he couldn't quite bring himself to commit to another, but didn't dare trouble Harry with it anymore...and on those occasions Hermione would do the motherly thing and let him ramble about it until it was out of his system and he could drift off to bed. It bothered her immensely, that neither of the two had yet found someone that suited them, and while she felt strongly that Harry had been right to reject Draco's youthful pining in as gentle a way as possible, she sometimes wondered if it might have been better for them somehow as a couple, as horrific and awkward as the proposition sounded.

That was the state of things for many long years, with Draco gaining fame for his publishings after years of research and study beside Hermione, ultimately breaking away on his own to lecture periodically and to publish even more frequently than she did. His experiments were far larger in scope than her own, and while she worked in theoreticals, Draco worked in advancing what could be tested adequately and proved to work. His modest income from books and speaking was unneeded, since the Malfoy fortune covered all needs he could even contemplate, far into the future, so at Harry's suggestion Draco endowed the earnings into a charitable trust and issued grants for research to witches and wizards who could meet the criteria. It was a well received gesture, but he wasn't especially interested in fame.

For the most part, the press and Wizarding society considered the new Lord Malfoy an enigma. He worked largely in private, but his experiments were ultimately published and well known by all. He was aloof, respected in intellectual circles, but distant from society at large. He was semi-famous for his acquaintance and friendship with the even better well known war heroes Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, as well the inexplicable choice by the somewhat reclusive Harry Potter to formally adopt Draco as his godchild and heir. It was the source of wild speculation, including crude hints that the ex Death Eater and former Lord Malfoy, Draco the Elder, had been slain by Aurors at some point in the past, and that Harry Potter was expiating some guilt over his dead enemy's orphaned child. A single massive lawsuit from the Malfoy Estate, threatening a call for damages that would have bankrupted the publications responsible and left their owners panhandling in Knockturn Alley, was sufficient to end public speculation by the press, and that was that.

Near his twenty-fifth year of age, Draco Malfoy made a series of profound and heartfelt apologies to his family and friends, insisting that his research had born fruit and that the tests he intended to undertake were exceedingly delicate. He closed up the Malfoy Estate and warded it against all, working week after week with no contact save with house elves, only to periodically emerge, haggard but cheerful, promising that he was very pleased with how things had gone. Of the nature of the research he would tell nothing. He only assured them that he was accomplishing something he could be very proud of someday, something that he couldn't possibly announce until he'd proven it could work. His pride demanded that he at least prove conclusively that his calculations were correct, and that spilling the details and then failing would be far worse than a bit of wasted effort alone.

Faced with his sense of certainty and assured by him that all was well, no one pushed harder for more details, and Draco passed the months with only occasional sightings at the Burrow, Hermione and Ron's, or Grimmauld Place. His research had generally gone well over the years, and with two books and dozens of papers to his name, few doubted that he really did need the momentary privacy. No one could have imagined the temerity of his actions, or conceived of the momentous thing he was to attempt.

A single cryptic note, delivered by owls to multiple addresses, came to the attention of his dearest friends one evening. Each owl arrived within seconds of the same time, and Harry, Ron and Hermione, as well as John and Marie Prewett read the same missive, each in their own homes, each wondering what the message could have meant.

_My dearest friends,_

_Although I have cherished each moment spent you all, I have spent a life in pursuit of knowledge, and that knowledge has ultimately given me a wild hope that I dare to make come to life. If any of you had known what I dared to attempt, you might likely have stopped me. I send this with the warning that it is too late, for what I have begun, you cannot stop. The matter will be decided and this course cannot be changed by any of you. I have already considered the ramifications and the morality of my actions, and in the end I have concluded that, to give a better life to the people I love most dearly, I am compelled to take action despite pressing ethical reasons not to do so._

_I love you all so very much, and every sorrow I have endured has been tempered by the love and kindness you have shown me. I cannot express my gratitude for all that has been given to me, but when I learned that more might be possible, not just for me, but for those whom I care for most, with a cost to none but myself (and even that a small one) I could not be swayed from testing until what seemed possible became what certainly could be done._

_I regret nothing, and if I am right, and what I believe can be accomplished can be done, then no one will be brought sorrow by my actions. In truth, no one will ever understand them, even myself, and even these letters will be irrelevant. I write this only in the event that I fail, in which case the fault will lie with me, and you who matter most to me should know that I perhaps reached for something that was beyond even my grasp._

_If, in the end, I cause you a sense of loss, then for that and that alone do I apologize to you. Please know that this was something only I could do, and that it was truly what I desired. If I have passed, then I have passed thinking of all of you, and wanting naught but happiness for you all._

_With love, your friend, Draco, Lord Malfoy_

Harry arrived at Malfoy Manor only minutes ahead of the others. Hermione and Ron, who had promptly called for Ron's parents to watch the children, came to find the wards shredded by Harry's power, only to be guided by house elves through the manor to the research chamber where Harry was tearing apart notebooks and frantically casting spells to no avail.

No sign of Draco Malfoy could be found, in flesh or in spirit, and no spell by any of them revealed any sign of his existence among the living or the dead. It was Hermione who made sense of the encoded notebooks, written in the shorthand of professional scholars and indecipherable to laymen. She gasped, turning white as a sheet, and whispered to her oldest friends a single shocked statement.

“The research...Harry...Ron...all of these notes...they're about...time.”

 

TBC


	43. Time For A Change

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 43: Time For A Change

 

Draco thundered back into being-ness, suddenly aware of a fleshly form after what had felt like an eternity of crackling through layers of reality. Even wrapped in heavily spelled grey robes, including a grey turban, thick gloves and boots, and even goggles that spared his eyes, the physical toll of such travel was daunting. He was flopped on wet grass under moonlight, gasping and retching, desperate to make his limbs move and half blind from agony and exhaustion.

It took him longer than he could have imagined just to make his hands work and his limbs flex. The punishment upon his body, even spell-guarded as it had been, was more than he had bargained for and then some. It took the greater part of ten minutes just to reach his satchel and open it, then to open and quaff the potion he'd stored in case he needed it. It had been a wise choice. When the liquid poured through him, he was suffused with energy and able to force himself to move, albeit with difficulty.

He tore the goggles from his eyes and looked about, lurching to his feet and staggering with the effort. 

_Damn! I'm miles off. I've got to Apparate to one of the sighting points. I need a landmark I can fix on! The moon...the timing is right...there isn't a lot of time left. I need a hilltop where I can view the landscape. That way...definitely that way! ___

It took every iota of will he had to do it, but he was the soul of discipline in the face of pain. He had known that this was a risk. Precise location was almost impossible to achieve when bending space and time around him. The best he could have hoped for was this...to be near enough and close enough in time to make a critical difference. Everything hung in the balance. A misstep and all would be wasted! 

Apparating hilltop to hilltop, sighting by landmarks carefully studied for months but made slightly different by decades of slow change, Draco finally sighted the location he'd been looking for with such desperation. One last Apparation and he popped into place, approaching the small cottage from which only screams could be heard. 

As Draco looked through the open door of the lonely cottage on the seaside, he could make out two standing forms and two prone ones. The two standing held wands in hand, and laughed cruelly. They were black clad and clearly in charge of the situation, while the blond man on the floor held the body of a woman next to him, weeping openly and slumped with an air of abject defeat. 

_Minutes! I missed them by minutes! Mother! They've killed her! Father! I can still save him. Forgive me, Father...I was late by minutes! I'll make them pay! I'll make them pay...dearly!_

__Rage exploded in Draco's breast. Driven mad with the lust to kill, he reached out with wand and will and snatched the two men literally into the air, dragging them out of the cottage with shocked expressions and flinging them high into the air. Then with the blackest and foulest spells he'd ever studied he deliberately burst them, each screaming in agony, into bloody pieces, scattering hunks of their bodies across the hillside in a savage, thunderous display of magical wrath._ _

__All that the blond man on the floor could see was a stranger garbed in grey, with a turban that hid his face save for the eyes. The eyes were a leaden gray that looked red-rimmed with exhaustion and grief, but the man had defeated the two Death Eaters with what seemed like almost no effort, and was striding in with wand pointed. A hasty spell later, the sole survivor of the attack had been healed enough to move and was handed his wand back._ _

__Draco, Lord Malfoy, composed himself despite the pain that wracked his body from Crutiatus and the grief that wracked his heart from the loss of his wife, Claire, and addressed the stranger._ _

__“Sir, I do not know you, but I owe you my life. All that I have is yours if you ask it of me. Who are you, and how can I repay you?”_ _

__The stranger in grey replied curtly while fishing through a heavy leather satchel. He handed Draco a single letter, wrapped and sealed, and its very touch carried the feel of powerful magic._ _

__“There isn't much time. The events I've set in motion are already unfolding around us. Nott betrayed you. Here is a Portkey. It will take you to the Ministry immediately. I am only sorry that I did not make it here sooner. It was my hope to have saved you both, but the way here was more difficult than you could possibly imagine. The letter is spelled to guard itself against a hostile environment that would seek to erase its existence. Should you open it and read it, it will very soon cease to be. You will know when you should read it. It will come to you in time. You owe me nothing, but do this: seek out Harry Potter. It might be difficult, but he will forgive you, and he will see to it that you are safe. You will not regret this. He has always loved you, and always will he be your friend. Give your child a good life, and my actions were not wasted.”_ _

__Draco looked into the eyes of the man that had just saved his life, and who inexplicably knew things that could not have been known easily. He wondered if he been Legilimized, but he'd felt no intrusion of any kind._ _

__“Who are you? How do you know these things? Who do I thank for...”_ _

__Even as the words left his mouth the man was fading into nothingness, not Apparating, but slowly evaporating like mist until nothing was left at all, and Draco could only wonder at the things that had just happened. He could not stay here and grieve. There might yet be other assassins about. He tucked away the letter, gathered up his slain wife in his arms with the strength he had left in him, unwilling to leave her in so ignoble a place, and triggered the Portkey._ _

__The Ministry was floored by the sudden appearance of Draco Malfoy, limping into the atrium with his murdered wife in his arms, shouting out for aid and insisting that they call for Harry Potter, and in the chaos and dithering the Aurors summoned for the occasion inspected Draco's own wand, sure that somehow he was responsible, but the tests showed that his wife had been slain by use of Unforgivable, and that Draco's wand had cast no such spells. His tale of capture and near death was recorded and he was placed in a heavily guarded room, while the body of his wife was carefully seen to so that evidence would be preserved...and so that funerary preparations could be made for a woman of substance._ _

__When Harry Potter received word of the events of that evening he dressed himself in his Auror's robes and hurried to the Ministry, dreading what he'd heard but almost sure that it must be true. Aurors had already been dispatched to Calais with orders to record and study the scene of the attack, but they would be gone for hours, and in the meantime Draco was being held under guard, still partially suspected of the murder of his wife, largely because any man with the Mark still upon them was considered highly suspect, and not without good reason._ _

__When Harry opened the door he found his ex-lover sprawled across a rude cot that had been set up for him, staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes puffy and red from tears, and face still wan and pale from shock. Crutiatus had reportedly been used on him during the attack, and Harry was familiar with how debilitating the aftereffects could be. Draco saw Harry enter the room and sat up immediately, turning his head away and pushing a hand through his hair._ _

__“They...they killed her, Harry. I...should have...I couldn't stop them. I wasn't...strong enough. They took us by surprise...and they killed her in front of me...laughing all the while! Merlin help me, I should have sent for you. If I'd been less a fool, I'd have sent for you. I should have begged for your help. She'd be here now...if I hadn't...I've failed her...like I failed you! It should have been me! Not her!”_ _

__Harry looked at the man sitting on the cot. Draco was overwrought with shock and horror. Pale and shaken from pain and loss. Harry had felt hatred for this man, a smoldering resentment that he'd been abandoned for a woman and a life as Lord to an ancient family. This was the man who'd deserted him at the moment he'd first felt like the future was his. Now he looked at Draco and saw only sorrow, and loss, and shame in his eyes. He couldn't...he couldn't keep his anger alive while looking at a person he'd loved so dearly, and who now was wracked by such grief._ _

__Harry nodded to the Auror at the wall, and the man quietly nodded back and left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Draco and Harry alone. Harry sat down beside Draco, still torn between the feelings of the past and the present, but he knew what was right. He placed an arm around the exhausted and grieving young man's shoulders, and pulled him into a rough embrace._ _

__“I'm so sorry. I know...I know you loved her. This...it's got nothing to do with you having done wrong. It's got to do with a lot of black robed maniacs who kill and hurt because they enjoy it. You got that? We'll sort this out. We'll get your son here safely. I'll go with you and a team to bring him here, alright? Just...get it out. Let it out, Draco. Everything...it'll all be alright. You'll see.”_ _

__And Draco wept, bitterly and openly, without shame, into the shoulder of the man he'd left behind and feared he'd never see again. The words of kindness opened a floodgate in him, and while his shoulders shook and he sobbed long and loud in the little room, Harry muttered the same words of unwavering support he'd once uttered two years before in a little room Grimmauld Place, and he meant them just as much now as he had then._ _

__At the last, Draco had flopped gracelessly across the lap of his much missed friend, resting softly in the aftermath of his breakdown. He looked up at last, into green eyes he'd dearly missed, and whispered hoarsely while he reached a hand up to touch Harry's face._ _

__“Please...forgive me, Harry. I know that I wronged you. I am so very sorry for what I have done. I have already lost too much...please tell me that, if I have nothing else, I still have my friend. I deserve nothing...but I beg you just the same...forgive me?”_ _

__And Harry looked down, sighed deeply, and let his hand have the luxury of stroking the tear dampened hair from his long absent lover's face. “If I couldn't have forgiven you...I wouldn't be here, Draco. I'd have sent another to take my place. Whatever else might pass between us, you will always be my friend. Never less. I forgive you. Just...try to forgive yourself. You carry too much on your shoulders. I know...because I do the same stupid thing._ _

__Draco breathed a single deep breath and sighed enormously, letting drooping eyelids finally close. “Thank you. Thank you, Harry.”_ _

__Within a minute, the thoroughly worn out gentleman in Harry's lap was unconscious in slumber, having been pushed past his ability to remain upright long before. Harry stayed just as he was, wondering at the strangeness of life, still amazed that it had come to this. He would never have wished ill on Draco's wife, even as enraged as he had once been at Draco himself. Now he wished he could have met her, this woman for whom his friend mourned so tearfully. It was an unfairness of the war that had given him this chance to hold Draco in his arms again, and the future was a great uncertainty in front of them now, but it would have to be faced soon, starting with the retrieval of Draco's son, as well as the arrest and interrogation of Theodore Nott._ _

__Harry had read the hasty reports that had been written up so far. There was much that would have to be seen to when the daylight came. Until then, he was content to take what little rest he'd have right here, with Draco held close to him again. It was more than he'd dreamed of as possible, but it had come to pass just the same._ _

__

__TBC!!_ _


	44. Brave New World

The Echoes Of Yesterday...by Samayel

Chapter 44: Brave New World

 

Draco, Lord Malfoy, looked out the frost rimed window of Malfoy Manor with pleasure. You could see the Quidditch pitch that had been set up years ago from this vantage, and from here it was clear that several people flew above it in an impromptu match. Harry was still the very devil himself on a broom, and Ron Weasley, great ape that the man might be, was no slouch, either. Draco's own son, as well as several of the young Weasleys, also alternately bobbed and soared above the pitch. Draco himself had retired from the match early, chilled to the bone and more in the mood for a brandy before dinner.

It wasn't uncommon at all, these grand gatherings. What a madcap life it had been, but how fine it had all turned out in the end. No one would have predicted Weasleys feeling at home visiting the Malfoy residence, or a Malfoy lord feasting on holidays at the Burrow, but there you had it. Wherever Harry Potter was involved, miracles seemed to happen in abundance.

To look back on the decades that had passed, well, it sometimes stung, but not badly. Claire's picture hung in the halls, and he missed her humor and warmth as dearly as he had when she'd been killed, but in time he'd found a new peace with Harry, and their love had blossomed and grown without interruption for almost two decades. They had raised young Draco together, which had been offsetting for Draco the Elder at first, until he grew used to being called Father, while Harry received the less formal honorific of Papa. Such things they'd seen! Parenthood had proved a forge in which they were tested and tried, raising an uncommonly gifted child with an uncompromising mind. Little Draco had eventually become a Ravenclaw prodigy, recognized even in his first year as exceptional beyond all expectations.

His heart swelled with pride when he thought of his sole worthy accomplishment. He'd been some part of raising his wonderful son into an outstanding young gentleman, alongside Harry, who had been there every step of the way in spite of dogged determination to remain an Auror. In twenty years, Harry had slowly earned his way to the very head of the service, now presiding over a peacetime that had settled comfortably over the Wizarding World and which required quite a bit less of his efforts than it had in the bad old days just after the war. Together they had raised a marvelous person, working and lecturing and publishing in his field at a pace that left other scholars agog with incredulity.

It didn't rankle in the slightest that his son turned out to be a bit more like his father than they had guessed. Perhaps the Malfoy line would pass into antiquity, taken up by some distant cousin or by whomever young Draco might name his heir in the future. Such things meant very little after a life so fine and full. Young Draco had emerged as gay and comfortable with it during his school years, and while his father and Harry had asked cautious questions about whether it was a matter of infatuation or something about having it impressed upon him by his parents somehow, the lad had rather clear-headedly spelled out his exact feelings on the subject, leaving little doubt that he was sure of his preferences and at peace with them.

Of course, they'd had to nurse their son through a couple of broken hearts, but in due time they had the pleasure of seeing their now grown child with his partner, a virtuoso musician from the Continent who had settled in England after regular performances in both the Muggle and Wizarding world (always careful to leave the magical augmentations out of the Muggle shows, of course.) Antonin, with his dark curls and intense gaze, made a strangely perfect counterpoint to young Draco's perpetual smirk and paler countenance. His son's happiness was paramount, and Draco the Elder was sure that it had been achieved.

But he'd come in from the cold for another reason. Nearly twenty-five years before, a miracle of sorts had happened. He'd been on the brink of death, consumed by sorrow and loss, holding his dead wife and gritting his teeth in agony as he made ready to be slain just as she had been. A man in grey had killed the Death Eaters responsible for it all, with barely any effort, and had then healed Draco as best he could, left behind a letter and a Portkey to the Ministry, and then vanished with only a few words having passed between them. He'd never even known the man's name.

He'd told Draco things that no one should have known of, and he promised that Draco would know instinctively when it was time to open the letter. Curiosity had bedeviled him many times over the years, but he'd never once sensed that it was somehow right to read the leather bound parchment still sealed and sitting in a box in his den.

Until today.

He'd been playing Seeker against Harry, each of them leading teams of youngsters against one another, laughing madly in the wind and chill of outdoors in late fall. Young Draco was as well wrapped against the weather as the rest of them, but the cap and heavy scarf wound around his face left only the eyes visible. Grey eyes, more the color of lead than his father's lighter cloud grey, slightly red rimmed from the cold and high emotions in mid game. At that moment he'd looked at his son's face and faltered, nearly falling from his broom in shock, only to recover momentarily and beg off, insisting that he was just a little winded and would step in for a brandy.

And so he came here, to his den, weirdly certain that this was it. The time. It 'felt' right, and the mere realization that something clearly involving his son and that letter was afoot...well...it made the hairs on his neck stand up with fright. Perhaps he shouldn't be alone for this, perhaps he should have told Harry, but he'd always known the contents of this unopened letter were meant for him, not for the eyes of others.

He'd placed the box on the desk of his study, drawn himself a glass of his oldest and finest brandy, and sipped at the snifter while calming his nerves. In the box, the leather wrap remained untouched and unopened after twenty-five years. It took but a moment for Draco to unwrap the parchment within and properly unroll it for reading. He'd been told it would all disappear shortly after being opened and read, and so he wasted no time in finally making known the secrets that eluded him for so long.

The handwriting, well known to him, was what shocked him first, and as he read he knew that his faintest suspicion had been correct, and that somehow, someway, it had come to pass that his child and this letter were inextricably linked, though not in any way he could have imagined.

_If you are reading this, at some distant point in the future, then I have succeeded in my quest, and a new page is now written where an old one has been made blank. If my calculations and assumptions are correct as well, then you are reading this at the precise moment that I started this process of change, some twenty-five years after the events of that night on the coast._

_Dearest Father, though it may vex you to imagine something as outrageous as what I put forth here, the man who writes this letter to you is not from your time, or from any future you will ever know, but you should know that I love you just the same, and that is a part of why I have done what I have done._

_The world in which I was raised no longer exists, and never will, and the son you love will be a different man than the one who penned this missive. In the world I inherited, you and mother were slain, and it was Harry, beloved to both of us, who took revenge at the cost of his career and his self respect, left to mourn without ever having known of your feelings, while you became a shade, a mere message, trapped in a book, and I was left to a life in the shadow of your loss, only to endure an isolation that I fear has made me a broken man, despite my accomplishments and the love of others._

_In my research I found hope, of all things, in the matter of time. Much has been speculated, but little proven, and I have unraveled its secrets as no other before me, but what I have learned is too dangerous to share with the rest of the world, lest they do as I have done, and act selfishly or out of passion when caution ought to be exercised instead. To be frank, I have changed time itself, and given the people I loved most a life that holds some greater chance for happiness, and in doing so I have unmade all which came to create me, and effectively erased the research I wished to ensure goes unused._

_Suffice it to say, time is like unto a river, flowing inexorably in one direction, and yet connected in all ways, past, present and future. Some think it impermeable and unchangeable, but this is not entirely so. In truth, limited change is possible, and does not result in paradox, but rather (again like unto water) moves around the changes made like a stream around a rock, all minor disruptions prevented or quietly absorbed, with only those major ones changing the events in the new stream. In my way, I have become a rock cast into that stream, intervening to spare the lives of at least one or both of my parents, and making certain that Harry would never commit a crime for which he would be ashamed._

_In doing this unspeakable act, I knew that I would be erased, for the experiences that formed me would simply cease to be, and in the new stream of events another person, hopefully whole and rational, not besieged by grief and loss, would come into being in my place. This letter represents the last evidence of my actions, moral or immoral, and because you of all the persons involved were present, you have the most right to know what I have done, and the knowledge is yours to share or conceal as you see fit. It indeed may have been wrong to have fundamentally altered the experiences of many people, only to relieve a few of a burden of sadness and unrealized potential, but I accept it as my crime and mine alone. I would only ask that you not hold these actions against my other self. He is blameless, the inheritor of a future I reshaped for his benefit as well as yours, while I now exist only in your memory._

_You should know, even though we met only briefly, that I found your journal in my youth and came to know you through it, and through that book, I knew that you and mother loved me with all of your heart. I do not know if its contents have ever been shared with another, but I knew its pages by memory before my thirteenth year was passed, and it was all that spared me from absolute madness. What I learned within drew me to Harry as soon as I was old enough to find my way to him, and I found a man ruined by the crimes of vengeance he'd committed to avenge you, then scarcely able to function, never again able to love as he once loved you._

_In spite of all that had passed, he still found in him the strength to care for me, to guide and protect me, just to honor the memory of you even while he ached in loss at the sight of me. I love him dearly, because he has been a light in my darkness, a beacon in the trackless ocean of my existence...and he has done so all for you, but he will never be truly happy, never have another at his side, never know the warmth of another love. You are, and always will be, in this time or any other, the only one for him._

_So this is my gift to you, and to him, crime that it may be. I cannot know the future that will unfold after my intervention, as it's all yet unwritten, but since this letter was to be handed to you I can only assume that at least you are now reading its contents, and I hope with all of my heart that you have found peace and joy in your lives, and that you and mother and Harry have no rancor between you, only friendship. Take every opportunity to savor all that you have, make the most of the love around you, and care for the ones you love as passionately and without compromise as you dare, and what I have done will not have been wasted._

_With love, the son you could not have known, Draco the Younger, Lord Malfoy_

As the last words settled into Draco's mind, he saw them begin to fade, and soon after the parchment and even the leather wrap had vanished into nothingness, whatever magics that had held them in reality having already begun to unravel. Tears were streaming down Draco's cheeks while he grappled with what he had brushed against, and he fumbled for the brandy and drank the entire draught in a single gulp, hoping to calm rattled nerves and restore his focus.

It was staggering to imagine! Another time, another world, a place where he had indeed died and Harry grieved alone, while his son was left to who could guess what fate? Whatever that fate had been, it had shaped a man willing to alter the fabric of reality to accomplish a single, somehow both selfish and noble goal. This was the grey-eyed man in robes that had saved his life those years ago, and there could be no doubt, knowing as he did that the man had possessed an uncanny knowledge of Draco's private thoughts and deeds.

Whoever that man had been, he was now gone, part of a world that had been erased to make way for the one where Draco now dwelt in peace. The journal on the shelf of his den was just that, a journal, one not read in many years because it seemed so meaningless in a world where he'd had the love of his dearest friend and companion by his side across decades. He'd rebuilt his life and reputation through years of service and philanthropy, as well as cementing his decency in the eyes of the public by having spent near twenty years devoted absolutely to his partner, now the actual head of the Auror Service, Harry Potter. Harry had helped him during the years he grieved for his wife and raised his son in the isolation of the Malfoy estate, secured against attack while the Aurors slowly eliminated the remaining clusters of Death Eaters. They'd watched Theodore Nott sentenced to Azkaban for life for his part in the murder of Draco's wife. 

Before long, the world was a more peaceful place, and Harry became a regular visitor at the manor, enjoying every moment with the rather cheerful imp of a son that Draco doted on without shame. It wasn't long after that when they took the peace and friendship between them to another level, finally letting the shades of yesteryear be forgotten in the face of a newer, stabler relationship between grown men who were no longer afraid of the consequences of their affection for one another.

Twenty years. It seemed like the blink of an eye. Draco wiped the tears from his face and tried to comport himself. Dinner would be served soon, and there were guests about. Perhaps he'd tell Harry of all this later, or perhaps not. Would any purpose be served by this hidden knowledge becoming known? Or was it like the secret of the Horcruxes, something to be carried to one's grave in silence, not out of shame, but to protect others from the harm that knowledge could wreak.

“Anything wrong, love? You look a little peaked. Dinner's almost ready, and the kids have worked up an appetite on the pitch today. Wore me out, they did.”

Harry had slid up behind him like a ghost, silent on the thickly carpeted floor of the study, and Draco simply leaned his head back against Harry's chest while seated in the fine old chair at the desk of his forefathers. It was a comfort just to feel his lover near him.

“Not at all. Just...you know...woolgathering. Thoughts of yesteryear, and how far it's all come since then. I'm so very happy, Harry. I wouldn't trade this life for anything. Can I ask you an odd question?”

Harry was still red cheeked from the wind and garbed in a thick sweater of red and gold, colors that had initially sent the portraits in the estate into conniptions, and occasionally merited hints of scorn or acid comments from Draco himself, but after twenty years he'd discreetly grown rather fond of the hideous thing, as long as it was Harry wearing it. Harry leaned down and kissed Draco's brow with solemn affection.

“Of course. As if there were such a thing as something you couldn't say to me? Ask away, love.”

“That day on the coast. The day of the attack. What if I'd been killed, too? Would you...would you have avenged me? Would you have killed for me, even though we'd been apart, and under such horrible circumstances? Would you have done something like that, even though you're an Auror?”

Harry's brow furrowed in concentration, and he was obviously puzzled as to why Draco would even ask such a question, but he was a man given to brutal honesty, and the answer didn't surprise Draco at all.

“I would love to think I couldn't do that, even for you...but I suspect I would have. I'm thankful it never became an issue. Then, without you, it was a dark time in my life. If you'd been taken from me...the way things were between us then...I can't say what I've have done, or what lengths I might have gone to. I doubt it would have ended well. I'd still like to shake the hand of the man that splattered those two bastards all over the hillside in Calais. Let's just agree that hurting you is a great way to get on my bad side and leave it at that. Such a dark question. What brought that on?”

Draco smiled a small mysterious smile, and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.

“Nothing that really matters any more, my love. C'mon...let's not leave the table unattended for too long or the Weasleys will be chewing on the plates from sheer hunger after that Quidditch match. I don't want to be thought a bad host. Besides, if we're done in time I can watch our child absolutely pound Ron at Wizard's chess. You know how much I inwardly gloat every time someone with the name Malfoy beats him at his favorite game.”

“You're incorrigible!” Harry chuckled, “But if it's any comfort, I can't help gloating a little, too. Someone has to keep Ron in check or his head would swell until his hats didn't fit!”

They strolled down the halls of the Malfoy estate toward a table filled with proof of a life well and wisely spent, a family and friends, abundance and comfort, respect and happiness...and most of all, love. When Draco looked at the bright and mirthful eyes of his son he did not flinch, because there was no echo of some terrible yesterday or tomorrow in them. The boy he'd raised with Harry was largely a stranger to sorrow or grief, and would never be the man that penned that vanished letter.

And in the silence of his heart, while he feasted beside the people he loved most dearly, Draco offered his private thanks to a man who didn't exist and never would. Right or wrong, moral or immoral, he'd been given some heaven sent second chance at happiness, and he'd since lived a life so wondrous that he could scarcely accept that it was his own and not some illusory dream. However it had come to pass, Draco loved this life, the man by his side, the son they had raised, and the friends they had gathered about them through the years...with a passion that was unfeigned and undiluted after decades. All that the man in grey had asked of him and wished for him had come to pass, and if some shade of that tormented man existed, Draco hoped that it knew its actions weren't in vain.

At the head of the table, he glanced at the man beside him, not a murderer or broken by regret, confident, literate and gentle, the husband and fellow father that had marked the last two decades of his life as memorable for their excellence, and Draco leaned toward Harry's ear.

“I love you, Harry.” He whispered below the dull roar of dinner conversation. His lover turned to face him with a grin.

“I love you, too, Draco. You know...in twenty years...I've never tired of hearing it. I've said it before, but it's still true. No one, nothing has ever made me happier than being with you.”

Draco basked in the warm glow of Harry's words, and the way his lover's green eyes showed every innermost thought and spoken word as true.

“I was thinking, love. After the crowd has gone, let's open the ballroom up again. I think I'd like to dance with you tonight.” 

 

FIN.   
“Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”

― Zhuangzi, Butterfly as Companion: Meditations on the First Three Chapters of the Chuang-Tzu


End file.
